


Post Script

by yekoc



Series: Post Script [1]
Category: Love Simon (2018), Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda - Becky Albertalli
Genre: Boys Figuring Out Feelings!, Coming Out, Epistolary, M/M, literature porn tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-21 08:53:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 40,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14281389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yekoc/pseuds/yekoc
Summary: Simon clicks the little trash icon, and it feels satisfying for a full fifteen seconds. Then he’s staring at his empty inbox, bereft, and it all comes crashing back down--the horrible loneliness of the Ferris Wheel, the fact that he’s going to have to spend the rest of the year trying not to think about who is or isn’t Blue. Who was or wasn’t.He rubs his eyes, hard, like he can hold a new wave of angry tears back in.When he opens them, there’s a new email in his inbox.[Movieverse AU: Blue doesn't reveal himself at the carnival.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU, based primarily on the events and characters of the movie. Some tone and small details are drawn from the book.

Martin pays for one more ride, and Simon knows that it’s supposed to be another, better apology, but it just feels like one extra cruel twist in this whole saga. Because no one shows up, not even for Martin’s charity ride. He sits on the Ferris Wheel and looks out at the crowd of his friends--well, some of his friends and a lot of random strangers with phones in their hands--and thinks about how maybe, one day, he’ll get to look back on this moment as a time when he was brave.

Maybe one day, but not tonight. It doesn’t feel brave to slink off the Ferris Wheel to disappointed murmurs and a few laughs from the crowd, to see the pity in Nick and Leah and Abby’s eyes as they come up to hustle him away from the site of his ultimate teenaged humiliation.

“Oh, Si,” says Leah. “I’m so sorry.”

“Let’s get you a corndog,” Abby offers, kissing him on the cheek. “THREE corndogs--no, a deep fried oreo! Look, there’s a stand right there.”

Simon groans and puts his head in his hands. He can hear Leah whispering to Abby, and Abby’s pained sigh of understanding.

Simon wants to let himself dive into their offers of junk food and comfort, but he just--he wants to be alone, right now. The garish cheer of the carnival around them feels like it’s mocking him. 

“You know we love you, right?” Nick asks, right before Simon leaves, and he does. He really does. It’s just not the kind of love he’d gotten his hopes up for tonight.

Alone in his room, he finally lets himself do what he’s wanted to do since somewhere around the fifteenth trip up on that wheel of torture. It’s a little bit cathartic, to flop facedown on his bed and let hot, angry tears soak into his pillow until it’s wet and slimy and his whole face feels hot. He’s been crying a lot lately--when his mom talked to him, after he yelled at Martin in the parking lot. When Blue deleted his email account. 

Thinking about Blue makes Simon pivot, suddenly, from sad to mad. It’s not about being stood up tonight exactly, although that definitely sucked. A lot. It’s that now that he can admit that nothing’s going to happen with Blue--now that his grand romantic gesture has fizzled out without even a single firework--he can also admit that it was _shitty_ of Blue to delete his email like that. 

It’s not that he had to come out just because Simon was outed. It’s that he abandoned Simon exactly when he needed him the most.

Suddenly furious, Simon grabs his laptop and opens gmail. He’s been hoarding all of his old emails with Blue, out of some pathetic sense of loyalty. Out of hope. Because they made him so brilliantly, helplessly happy.

Well, that’s over now. He selects them all, one by one, not even letting himself open the one where Blue signed off with “love,” the first time. He’s going to delete that one extra hard. 

He clicks the little trash icon, and it feels satisfying for a full fifteen seconds. Then he’s staring at his empty inbox, bereft, and it all comes crashing back down--the horrible loneliness of the Ferris Wheel, the fact that he’s going to have to spend the rest of the year trying not to think about who is or isn’t Blue. Who was or wasn’t.

He rubs his eyes, hard, like he can hold a new wave of angry tears back in.

When he opens them, there’s a new email in his inbox.

***

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Jan 23 at 11:45 pm  
SUBJECT: Simon

Dear Simon,

I want to start with a long-overdue apology. I am so, so sorry that I disappeared on you. I am so incredibly sorry that I did exactly what you asked me not to do, and ran.

I’ll understand if you don’t want anything to do with me after this.

Especially because I didn’t come tonight. I wanted to, so badly. I spent all night thinking about how fearless you are. You shine so brightly, even after everything that’s happened this past month. Even after everything I’ve done, or not done.

You’re probably asking why I didn’t come tonight, if I claim that I wanted to. That’s a valid question, but I don’t know if I have an adequate answer for it. It seems insufficient to say that you’re braver than I am, but I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s not fair of me to ask you to hide something for me. I see that now. I want to be with you, but I can’t ask you to hide any part of yourself for me, not again, not after you’ve figured out how to be your whole self in the world.

(Your whole self is pretty amazing, by the way.)

I’m just not ready, even now. Even though I want to be.

I know that I owe you more than that, though. I want to say, first of all, that I should have realized a long time ago that sharing myself with you isn’t the same as coming out to the world. I don’t want to ask you to keep secrets for me, Simon. But at the same time, I don’t want to hide myself from you anymore. Especially now that I know who you are, for sure.

So I’m going to attach a picture of myself to this email. Open it if you want to: it’s up to you. If you don’t want another secret to keep, I won’t force this one on you. But you deserve to make that choice yourself. I’m sorry for not trusting you with that earlier.

Love,  
Blue

1 attachment: me.jpg

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Jan 24 at 3:06 am  
SUBJECT: Re: Simon

Hi, Blue.

I didn’t open the photo yet. I don’t want to open it while I’m mad at you.

And I’m so, so mad at you, Blue. I hope it’s okay to admit that.

I’m not saying that anything you did was wrong. Not exactly. Your choices are your own to make, and god knows that I’d never want to force anyone out before they’re ready. Not after I screamed at Martin Addison in the parking lot for doing the exact same thing to me. But I wasn’t going to out you just because I was outed. I would never do that. I can’t believe you ever thought I would.

I was just so excited for tonight, Blue. This month has been so awful. Awfulness piled on top of awfulness. I guess I talked myself into thinking that tonight was the reward for all of that awfulness. You know?

It’s hard to figure out what parts of me are mad at you and what parts of me are just really sad. 

I’m sorry. It’s 3 am. I’m having a little trouble thinking clearly. 

\--Simon 

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Jan 24 at 3:07 am  
SUBJECT: Re: Simon

Please just don’t disappear again. I’m really glad you’re back. 

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Jan 24 at 3:08 am  
SUBJECT: Re: Simon

A tiny part of me is afraid that you didn’t meet me tonight because you don’t like the real me, now that you know who I am. I know that’s selfish of me.

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Jan 24 at 3:25 am  
SUBJECT: Re: Simon

Simon,

I want to respond to your emails as fully as you deserve, but as you pointed out, it’s 3 am. I’m a little bit compromised, too. But as tired as I am, I can’t sleep. And as much as everything you’ve said deserves a thorough, non-sleep-deprived response, I can’t let you wake up and not know right away that that’s not why I didn’t come tonight.

Simon, you’re going to think I’m just saying this, but I’d been hoping that you were Jacques since I got your first email. I guess I was hoping you were Jacques even before I knew there _was_ a Jacques. 

I kept telling myself it was just wishful thinking, even when I had clues. Like your pseudonym--clever, by the way. But when Martin did that to you, when I knew for sure, that’s part of why I ran away.

I didn’t know how to keep emailing the boy I’ve had a crush on for two years and not act on it. I didn’t know how not to be with you, once I knew it was you. When there was a chance that Jacques would be someone I could just be friends with--really good friends with--it didn’t seem like these emails were destined to end in either outing or heartbreak.

But once I knew it was you, it was all or nothing.

I’m so sorry I tried to choose nothing.

I’m trying to choose something instead of nothing, now. I understand if you don’t want that. I also don’t know what that something could possibly be that wouldn’t be unfair to you. I guess I said all of this, already.

I really like you, Simon. I like the way you smile like you don’t even realize you’re doing it. I like how your hair is just a little bit too long. I think about running my fingers through it, what it would feel like. I like the way you look at me. I hope I’m not imagining it. 

Love,  
Blue

P.S. I’m realizing that it’s presumptuous to assume that you’d like me enough to date me, if you knew who I was. I know you’ve never said that, but just so you know--you’re not obligated to want to date me. If you just wanted to be friends, that would be enough. If you’ll have me back, that is.


	2. Chapter 2

The day after the Carnival of Failure is a whole new kind of humiliating. It’s not that kids are making fun of Simon, it’s that they can’t even _look_ at him. Walking down the hallway in between classes is like walking a gauntlet of averted faces, punctuated by the occasional pitying glance. 

“Well, it was worse for Martin,” Nick offers hopefully. “You’re not a meme yet.”

“Thanks, bud,” says Simon. 

“I think Ms. Albright would actually get whoever posted video of it arrested on hate crime charges,” says Abby, sounding impressed. 

“Ugh,” says Simon. “I think that might even be worse. I just want everyone to forget all about it, I don’t want to be some new social justice poster boy.”

“Ferris Wheel Lives Matter!” says Nick, and Abby glares at him. 

“I’m black! I can make a joke about it!” Nick starts, and Simon ducks into English before he’s caught up in argument he doesn’t feel qualified to have. 

Everyone looks at him and then away, as one. It would be impressive if they’d choreographed it--as it is, it’s just depressing. 

The only person who even tries to smile at him is Bram Greenfeld, but it kind of comes out as a grimace. Bram must have been at a party instead of the carnival, last night--he looks awful, like he’s fully hungover for second period English.

At least he didn’t witness last night’s humiliation first-hand, Simon thinks. He slouches down in his chair and hopes Mr. Wise won’t call on him. 

“Julius Caesar!” says Mr. Wise, flapping the book at them enthusiastically. “Act two, scene two! A scene that really needs to be _performed_ to get the full effect, I think. Any thespians in our class today? Anyone?”

In the front row, Taylor Metternich starts jumping up and down in her seat. Mr. Wise clears his throat and ignores her.

“Anyone? Come on, I know we’ve got someone who wants to volunteer--who _hasn’t before_ ” he says, glancing at Taylor.

And then, of course, because this is the worst 24-hour stretch of his entire life--the bar just keeps getting higher--Mr. Wise looks straight at Simon.

“Mr. Spier! You’re in theater club, yes? Come on, it’s every actor’s dream to read Caesar. Come on up here--”

Simon tries to slink lower, but Mr. Wise won’t give up. He’s going to have to stand in front of an entire room of people who can’t even look him in the eye and make a fool of himself, all over again. Normally, this would be mildly annoying. Today, with dawning horror, he realizes that if he tries to read out loud he’ll cry; he can feel the pressure collecting in his throat, under his eyes.

And then Bram raises his hand. “I’ll do it,” he says. 

Simon watches as Bram gets up and heads to the front of the classroom. Bram glances at him again on the way and nods, quietly. Bram’s nice; Simon forgets that, sometimes, because he’s been so busy actively not thinking about Bram ever since Halloween.

The fact that seeing Bram makes humiliation swell through Simon isn’t Bram’s fault, though. He should try to remember that. 

In front of the blackboard, Bram opens his book and clears his throat.

“Cowards die many times before their deaths,” he starts, and then trails off. It looks like he’s about to puke. Definitely hungover. 

But Bram takes a deep breath and keeps going, even though Simon can see his hands shaking where he’s holding up the text. 

“The valiant never taste of death but once.  
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard.  
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;  
Seeing that death, a necessary end,  
Will come when it will come.”

He reads quietly and steadily, not over-performing it the way Taylor would. It’s more like a poem than a play when Bram reads it, Simon thinks. His voice is deep and soft at the same time. It’s, well. It’s kind of sexy.

He realizes he’s staring and looks quickly at the floor. That’s exactly what he needs--for the only kid who’s treated him like a human today to know that Simon, noted school homosexual, is thinking about him that way.

“And what do we think Caesar means by that?” asks Mr. Wise. “Don’t answer now--I want two hundred words on this stanza by the end of the week, please. Now, let’s keep reading for context. Someone else? Alright, fine, Taylor.”

Simon kind of tunes out after that, but the lines Bram read keep ringing through his head. _Cowards die many times before their deaths,_ he thinks, and turns his phone over and over under the desk.

***

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Jan 26 at 10:12 pm  
SUBJECT: For thy humor

1 attachment: caesarresponse.docx

During the selection from Act 2 Scene 2 of _Julius Caesar_ that we read today in class, Caesar declares that “cowards die many times before their deaths” and “the valiant never taste of death but once.” I believe that on the surface, these lines imply exactly what they sound like--that is is bad to be a coward, and it is good to be valiant and brave. However, on a deeper level, there is another meaning to these lines. Further along in the scene, Caesar is talking to Calpurnia, who is afraid that something bad will happen to him if he goes to the Senate that day. 

Calpurnia asks Caesar to stay home for her sake, and gives him an excuse to use when she says “Do not go forth to-day: call it my fear/That keeps you in the house, and not your own.” Caesar then agrees to make an excuse and stay home: he says he will do it “for thy humor,” or, in other words, to make her happy and to protect her from something that she fears. Caesar refuses to lie about why he is not going to the Senate. Even though he knows he may be considered weak or a coward for giving in to his wife’s fears for him (which turn out to be justified!) he is brave enough to sacrifice what he wants--to not be seen as a coward--for what his wife wants, which is his safety. 

Even though later on, Decius convinces Caesar to come to the Senate, I think that this is when Caesar is truly “valiant”--when he is sacrificing something he wants in order to protect Calpurnia. His most cowardly moment is when he gives in to Decius and tells Calpurnia he shouldn’t have listened to her. In conclusion, Caesar is mistaken about the real nature of cowardice and of valiance. He might be right that “the valiant never taste of death but once,” but being valiant doesn’t mean what he thinks it means. 

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Jan 26 at 10:46 pm  
SUBJECT: Re: For thy humor 

Simon, 

I’ve started this email at least seven times so far. I don’t want to jump to any conclusions, but I want to believe this means that you looked at the photograph. That you know who I am. I have so much more that I want to say, but I’ll wait to hear from you for sure. Again, I want you to choose whether or not you know my identity. I don’t want to take that choice away from you by saying too much right now. 

All I’ll say is this: that the difficulty I have with understanding that scene is that Caesar’s and Calpurnia’s wishes are so different. If Caesar protects Calpurnia and gives her what she wants, he is giving up something he wants--sacrificing part of who he is. If Calpurnia is brave enough to let Caesar have what he wants, in turn, then she has to live in fear. In your essay, it seems like you’re on Calpurnia’s side. But is it fair to Caesar to ask him to sacrifice so much of who he is, his public life, just because she’s afraid of some augury? 

Love,  
Blue 

P.S. In case it wasn’t clear, your essay means a lot to me, Simon. In fact, I printed it out. Did you know my mom still keeps an actual printer around? 


	3. Chapter 3

Simon looks surreptitiously at Nick and Abby in the rearview mirror as he pulls up to the takeout window. They're sitting normally, seatbelts on--Simon’s friends know that his mom’s one truly weird rule is that she’ll take his car away if he ever, ever lets anyone drive anywhere in it without a seatbelt on.

You wouldn’t know that they were dating, necessarily, unless you knew what to look for: Nick’s hand resting on Abby’s leg, right above her knee. The way his fingers are making tiny circles in her skin. The way her cheeks are flushed.

“Simon!” Leah says, and claps twice right next to his head. “The coffee? I have that math test first period, Si, please order already.”

Simon wrestles his focus back and leans his head out the window.

“One with milk!” Nick says, just like he does every morning. And just like every morning, Abby giggles. Leah rolls her eyes. Simon pays, and the day begins.

***

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Jan 27 at 10:35 pm  
SUBJECT: I don’t…

...know how to address this email.

I guess I’ll start by saying--yes. I looked at the picture. Not that that essay didn’t make it obvious. I really wasn’t going to, at first. I felt like it was too big of a secret to keep for someone else.

But mostly I wasn’t going to open it because--well, okay. This might sound dumb. I think I was just getting used to talking to Blue again, you know? I didn’t want everything to change.

I know that’s exactly what I was asking you for. To change everything. So how could that not be what I wanted when you offered it to me? I guess I wanted it to be all or nothing. Exactly what you were afraid of. If I couldn’t have you as my big romantic gesture Ferris Wheel boyfriend, then I wanted to keep you as my faceless pen pal.

But it was stupid to think that things could go back to exactly the way they were before, when everything was easy with you. Everything has changed. I’m still not sure if I’m angry with you, or with myself--or with Martin, or the world.

I think I looked at your picture because I’m tired of having things happen to me and not having a say. I wanted to be the one to choose what happened next in this saga (is that too dramatic?) of ours. Thank you, for giving me that choice. It meant more than you probably realized.

I don’t know what happens next, though. I’m still angry with you, a little bit. I don’t know if that’s fair.

\--Simon

P.S. You make Julius Caesar sound like poetry when you read it.

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Jan 27 at 11:13 pm  
SUBJECT: Re: I don’t…

Simon,

I don’t think saga is too dramatic at all. I think we’ve got something epic going on, even. Something Shakespearean.

It’s okay if you’re still angry. There are things I’m angry about, too. Not with you so much as with the world, maybe, just like you said. I’m angry on both of our behalfs about what Martin did to you--and to me, by extension. I know it wasn’t the same, but those emails were my private thoughts, too. They were always for you alone. And I’m angry in the abstract that when I had a chance to come back to you, to be forgiven, it was an all-or-nothing public display. That’s not your fault, Simon. I love that you believe in grand romantic gestures, and in love stories. But I wanted a different kind of choice.

I’m still angry at myself, most of all, for not being ready.

I don’t know what happens next, either. I’m hoping we can decide that together. I promise not to run away, and even though I might not deserve to ask this of you, I’m hoping that you won’t, either.

Yours,  
B

P.S. Here’s a real poem for you, Simon.  
1 attachment: [Voicememo.mp4](http://www.frankohara.org/writing/#song2)

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Jan 27 at 11:56 pm  
SUBJECT: O’Hara???

You’ve got to be kidding me. I thought I was the only kid at Creekwood cool enough to be into Frank O’Hara. I should have known once we moved from music to literature, you’d overtake me in a second.

I know we still have all that other stuff to talk about. But for now, all I can think about is how sexy your voice is. It’s not fair, when I’m still mad. There should be a law against it. You can’t WOO me with OHARA.

How dare you,  
Simon

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Jan 28 at 12:07 am  
SUBJECT: Re: O’Hara???

I’ve just always liked that poem, honestly. Don’t worry, your cooler-than-thou cred is safe; I think it’s the only O’Hara I’ve ever read.

Now that I know you think my voice is sexy, though, I guess I’ll have to do some more research.

Goodnight, Simon.  
B


	4. Chapter 4

“Come hang at my place tonight?” Nick says, sitting down with his lunch tray. “Free crib.”

“He’s trying to make it sound like a party, but it’s gonna be like six people playing Catan,” Leah adds.

“Sure,” Simon says, glad to have something to do on a Friday night that isn’t sitting in front of his laptop, agonizing. 

But when Simon gets there that night, he’s greeted by the thumping bass of Bodak Yellow. Not exactly Settlers of Catan music. 

“Yooooooooo!” Nick says, opening the door. Abby’s right behind him, rolling her eyes. 

“Garrett’s brother is home on break, or something. He bought beer. Nick’s certainly having fun with it.”

Abby’s holding a plastic cup too, though, so she can’t be too upset.

 _Turns out, I'm rich, I'm rich, I'm rich!_ , thunders Cardi B. 

“Interesting turn of events,” says Leah, but she gives Abby a hug and puts her bag down on a chair anyway.

Well, fine. Simon can do this instead of board games. It’s probably an even better distraction, actually. The taste of beer only reminds him of Halloween for the first cup. By the time he’s halfway through his third, the opening strains of Hotline Bling are enough to physically compel his body up from where he’s sitting with Leah on the couch, towards the middle of the room. 

_You used to call me on my cellphone,_ Drake croons, and Simon’s dancing to it, half-joking, half-loving the way the beat pounds through his body.

“Leah!” he shouts at her, tries to grab her hand to pull her up from the couch. She’s laughing and shaking her head, kisses him on the cheek instead and scrambles away to the other end of the couch.

“You’re missing out,” Simon insists. She really is. Hotline Bling is a piece of art. This song is a generational masterpiece. 

“That’s an aggressive statement,” says Abby, and Simon realizes, belatedly, that he was shouting his love for Drake to the whole party--which, besides him and Abby and Nick and Leah, is Garrett and a bunch of other kids from the soccer team.

One particular kid from the soccer team isn’t there, but Simon’s second beer convinced him that he doesn’t care about that.

 _You should just be yourself_ , Drake urges. _Right now you’re someone else_. 

Drake’s so right, Simon realizes. Drake is the voice of their generation. Drake is a prophet. 

“Drake’s so wise,” he says to Abby, collapsing next to her on the couch.

“Oh, honey,” she says. “I’m going to make you come over and listen to four hours of Kendrick Lamar with me later, when you’re sober enough to understand how wrong you are. We’re going to have a whole seminar.”

“I don’t know what that has to do with Drake’s transcendent genius,” says Simon.

She turns to look towards the kitchen, where a few other kids are gathered.

“Bram!” Abby shouts. “Bram, come here. Please help Simon understand that he can’t be talking about Drake in a Kendrick world.”

The euphoria Simon’s been feeling at his discovery of Drake’s artistic genius fades, all at once. Underneath it, Simon is exhausted. He sinks into the couch. The room spins, just a little bit.

Bram’s sitting on the arm of the couch now, talking to Abby about Kendrick Lamar.

“See, Simon?” Abby asks. 

“Uh-huh,” says Simon. He looks around for his cup. It’s possible that Leah confiscated it earlier, when he tried to make her dance.

Bram’s leg, his soccer-sculpted thigh under black denim, is right next to Simon’s arm. Simon can feel the heat of it through his shirt. 

“Be right there,” Abby’s saying to someone, and then she gets up. 

“I didn’t know you were here,” Simon says, because he doesn’t know what else to say, but the beer he’s had is telling him it would be a great idea to say _something_.

“I wasn’t going to come,” says Bram, “but Garrett convinced me. He says I’ve been no fun at all since Halloween.”

“Looked like you were having plenty of fun on Halloween,” Simon and his three beers say. He looks at the floor, which is still threatening to escape the laws of gravity and spin everywhere.

“Simon,” says Bram. His voice is low, pleading. Simon has thought about Bram’s voice a lot lately. Way, way too much. In inappropriate ways. 

He looks at Bram. 

“I was drunk, and stupid,” says Bram. He’s talking quietly, leaning in close so that Simon can hear him. Simon’s sunken into the corner of the couch and Bram is sitting on the arm above him, one arm behind Simon’s head for balance. When he leans down to talk, his whole body moves towards Simon’s. 

One thing Simon hasn’t told Blue yet is that Bram Greenfeld is incredibly, unfairly hot. 

“It should have been you,” Bram says. His face is so close to Simon’s. Simon can see the way he’s biting down on his bottom lip a little bit, the marks it makes. 

Simon could lean in right now, he thinks, and learn what Bram’s lips feel like against his. 

He wants to, god. The beer _really_ wants to. He thinks that Bram might--Bram might also want to. But--

There are people all around them, kids shouting and talking, a table in the corner that looks like it’s playing poker. Nick’s game night has turned into a full-on high school party, and he can’t do this.

Simon breaks away from Bram’s quiet gaze and fumbles for his phone, and just like that, whatever was about to happen is over. Bram’s just another kid crowded onto the couch, and Simon’s--Simon just sinks back into the couch and lets the room, and the moment, spin away from him. 

***

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Jan 30 at 2:13 pm  
SUBJECT: Ughhh

Please tell me I didn’t do anything stupid last night. I think I remember all of it??

\--Simon

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Jan 30 at 2:15 pm  
SUBJECT: Re: Ughhh

If I’m being really honest, actually, the last thing I remember is wanting to kiss you. 

Please, please don’t tell me I don’t remember our first kiss. 

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Jan 30 at 3:11 pm  
SUBJECT: Re: Ughhh

Simon,

You don’t have to worry. Nothing happened. We were talking on the couch, and then you fell asleep. It was kind of cute, actually. You weren’t even that drunk. 

Did you really want to kiss me?

I don’t want to sound overconfident, Simon, but when I kiss you, you’ll know it. 

(I hope that’s not presumptuous).

Drink lots of water, okay?

Yours,  
B

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Jan 30 at 3:20 pm  
SUBJECT: Kendrick Lamar

For the record, Abby is right about Kendrick’s lyrical genius. But I’ll admit that Drake has his advantages. One of them was watching you dance last night. You probably don’t realize this, but when you’re that happy, you’re the only thing worth looking at. 

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Jan 30 at 10:07 pm  
SUBJECT: Re: Ughhh

Jesus, no, that’s not presumptuous. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard, actually. 

Yes, I wanted to kiss you. Just because I was mad at you doesn’t mean that I don’t think you’re, like, unfairly hot. I guess I never said that before. I thought you were cute long before I opened that picture, and now that I know that this is you, I can’t stop thinking about you. 

Like your lips. I thought about your lips a lot, last night.

I just wished we were somewhere where we could be alone. I still don’t know how to be with you in public, Bram. What do you want? I assume it’s not to be kissed by a guy in the middle of a crowded party. Which is okay, really. Just--I keep thinking about what could have happened if we hadn’t been in the middle of a crowded party. 

Do you think about that stuff too?

Don’t worry, I’m drinking water. Thanks for worrying. 

Yours,  
Simon


	5. Chapter 5

Mondays are usually a total drag, but this week Simon wakes up thrumming with adrenaline. He showers, warm water falling over him as bright sun pours into the bathroom. Nora’s blackberry parfait is tangy and sweet, and he kisses her on the forehead as he grabs his backpack and heads on the door. She pulls an annoyed face but then ducks her head, smiling. 

“Someone woke up on the right side of the bed,” Leah says as she gets in the car. 

“Just happy it’s a new month,” Simon says, shrugging. “January, all time hell month, is finally over. I thought it would never happen.”

“You’re excited for _February_?” Leah asks. “February, as a month, doesn’t even make sense. It’s like the month they came up with to fill space in the year because all the other months didn’t add up right. Plus, Valentine’s Day, ugh. Gag me.”

But Simon thinks he’s right, especially when he passes Bram in the hallway before homeroom. Bram’s leaning next to his locker, reading. 

He’s wearing a Hawks jersey, _Prince 12_ , and those black jeans again. His hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck as he reads, totally absorbed in his book. There’s something about it--the basketball jersey and the book--that’s like a bell ringing, the strumming of a string Simon didn’t know was inside of him 

_Oh_ , Simon thinks. Jocks who read. Big hands on books. The way the tank sleeves of his jersey reveal the slender muscles carved under the dark skin of Bram’s shoulders, his back. 

The bell rings, a shrill slap. Simon rubs a hand over his face, hard, and ducks into first period. 

He’d known he was into Blue, in an abstract, mental, emotional way. He’d known he was into Bram, in a “that-cute-guy-who-sits-with-us-sometimes” way. He hadn’t know it was like _that_. Simon swallows, opens his calculus textbook. The symbols swim on the page; he doodles xs and ys in the margins until they turn into Bs and he has to slam the book shut.

“Simon, since you appear to understand all that Chapter 12 has to teach us, would you like to come up and solve this for the class?” Mrs. Weaver demands, and, wow, that’s bad timing. Simon has to pretend to fumble around in his backpack for his graphing calculator until he’s got himself under control.

In English, Bram smiles at him on the way to his desk. It’s tentative, a quick upward twitch of his lips, but it makes something twist inside Simon in response. 

Mr. Wise is saying something about pivoting from Shakespeare to the contemporary short story, but Simon isn’t listening. He’s thinking about how cool alphabetical seating order is. He’s never adequately appreciated it before, the way that once you line everyone up, _G_ ends up in the second row, and _S_ is a row back and a few seats over. 

If his last name were Burke, for example, he wouldn’t be able to tune out of Mr. Wise’s ode to the short story and into the way the Bram chews on his bottom lip when he’s thinking, the length of his fingers on his pencil. 

Bram glances his at him, suddenly, and Simon can feel his face heating up. He ducks his head back to his notes. 

“Mr. Greenfeld?” says Mr. Wise. Bram coughs. 

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “Sorry--I think it’s about his use of language, the way it’s so sparse. There’s nothing wasted.”

“Excellent,” says Mr. Wise, and Simon drinks in the way Bram’s face flickers, pleased.

“Move over, man,” Garrett says at lunch, fitting his tray between Nick’s and Leah’s. Bram’s behind him, shrugging apologetically. Garrett and Bram don’t sit with them that often. Simon fumbles with his milk carton.

“Gotta talk strategy!” Garrett says. “Practice today. Sorry, theater kids.”

“I thought soccer season _just_ ended,” says Leah. 

“Yeah, you also think a center fielder is a soccer position,” says Nick. “Soccer ended in November, Leah. It's almost the playoffs? The _basketball_ playoffs.”

“Wow, sports are truly the worst,” says Leah.

Right. Simon remembers now. Creekwood’s not a tiny school, but it’s small enough that there’s a bunch of overlap in the jock population. 

He points this out, and Bram laughs. The line of his throat when he throws his head back makes Simon’s mouth dry. 

“Yeah,” he says, “but what it means is we’re, like, basically very mediocre at basketball.”

“Such modesty from our star point guard,” says Garrett, fondly. Bram blushes. He’s sitting across from Simon. The cafeteria tables aren’t that big. If Simon stretched his leg out a little, he’d touch Bram’s. 

He doesn’t. He feels far away, suddenly, from the quiet Bram he’d seen reading in the hall this morning, the thoughtful Bram of English class. It’s easier to see those Brams as Blue. This Bram, the star athlete laughing and stealing tater tots from his teammates, is harder to reconcile.

Harder to reconcile, but not hard to _want_.

Simon picks up his sandwich, suddenly grateful that he only has one class a day with Bram Greenfeld. 

***

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 1 at 10:11 pm  
SUBJECT: Re: Ughhh

Simon,

I’m sorry for taking so long to respond to this email. I have two excuses: first, it was a little distracting. Second, I’ve been trying to come up with an answer for you. You said you don’t know how to be with me in public, and the truth is that I don’t know, either. Every day I wake up and I want to be able to say that today I’ll tell the world, and every day I have to admit that I just can’t. Not yet. 

You also asked me what I want. That one is easier to answer, Simon. In fact, I have a whole list. Item one is to hang out with you, face to face, without our favorite intermediary, the internet. 

The problem is that I still feel guilty for wanting to spend time with you in private. I don’t want to make you a secret, and I don’t want to make you keep a secret. If you can’t do that, I promise that I understand. I’d take just talking to you, at school, or at parties. I’ll take eating lunch with you every day, even if that’s all we do. 

Yours,  
B

P.S. Did Leah really think center field was a soccer position?

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 1 at 10:27 pm  
SUBJECT: Re: Ughhh

B--

Here’s the thing: you’re right, the idea of going through Martin’s Coming Out Funhouse of Horrors just to end up back in the middle of a huge gay secret is not appealing to me. I don’t mean to sound angry. I know you get it, and I know--I know--it isn’t your fault. I’m just trying to be honest.

But here’s the other thing: we’re kind of already in the middle of a huge gay secret. It’s not like I talk to people about my email...thing. I did tell Leah, but that was before I knew who you were. As far as she knows, my heart got broken on that Ferris Wheel and that was the end of that. 

And here’s the other other thing: I really, really want to hang out with you. Face to face. Even if it has to be in private.

Maybe we can just--see how it goes? I mean, if we hung out and talked at Waffle House after school, that wouldn’t exactly have to be a secret, right? 

Okay. Now that that’s out of the way:

Distracting????

A whole list?????????

Do I get to know what else is on the list? 

Yours,  
Simon

P.S. I have no idea what a center fielder is. I assume they stand in the center of a field. 

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 1 at 11:22 pm  
SUBJECT: List

Yes, a whole list. No, you don’t get to know the whole list.

But because I’m very happy right now and not using my best judgment, you can have a few selections from the list.

4\. I want to kiss you.  
6\. I want to know what that one spot on your neck tastes like.  
9\. I want to run my fingers through your hair.  
14\. I want to know what your hands feel like on my skin. 

Yours,  
B

P.S. I’ll see you at Waffle House Thursday at 7.


	6. Chapter 6

“Oh, honey, Nora’s making beetroot souffle,” Simon’s mom says, disappointed. “Are you sure you can’t just meet up with Leah after dinner? I don’t like the thought of you eating all that Waffle House all the time.”

“Please, mom, you’re going to give me body image issues,” says Simon. “Isn’t your job, like, to solve people’s body image issues after their moms tell them Waffle House is making them fat?”

Internally, Simon’s crossing every finger he has. Sometimes his mom puts her foot down about family time at weird moments. Inconvenient moments. Super, incredibly inconvenient moments. Simon has already spent three days agonizing about this--plus a very embarrassing half hour trying on most of his closet before ending up in the same dark jeans, black hoodie, and jean jacket he wears every day--and if he doesn’t get out the door right now, he’ll explode.

His mom looks at him and sighs. “The real mistake I made was giving you that quick wit,” she says. “Go on, but home by ten, okay?”

“Love you,” Simon says, kissing her on the cheek on the way out the door. 

“I love you too!” she shouts as he’s getting in the car. “Eat a vegetable!”

By the time he parks, the steering wheel is sweaty under his hands, or maybe it’s that his hands are sweaty. Simon rubs them on his thighs, takes a deep breath, and levers himself up and out of the car.

They hadn’t had to clarify which Waffle House to meet at--there’s only one worth going to, and Simon realizes as he heads inside that maybe that’s a problem. This is an established Creekwood hangout. He knows the whole point is that they’re not really on a date, but still--before, it would have made him nervous to eat alone with, like, Ethan. He would have been totally focused on what people were or weren’t thinking. He would have hated it, as sad and awful and messed up as that is. 

“You saving this seat?” someone asks, and Simon looks up, startled. It’s Bram. He half-smiles, sweet and nervous, and something in Simon unclenches a tiny bit in response. He nods, gives his own half-smile back.

“Nah,” he says. “You can sit here.”

Bram slides into the other side of the booth and gives him another one of those flickering smiles, drums his fingers against the tabletop. Simon studies the menu he already knows by heart.

“My mom’s pretty insistent that I eat a vegetable tonight,” he says, just for something to say. 

Bram laughs, and Simon feels warm relief.

“Not a lot of luck on this menu,” Bram says, pretending to study it. “I mean, I guess there’s always hashbrowns, uh… smothered and peppered?”

“Ah, yes,” says Simon. “Fried potatoes with onions and jalapenos totally count.”

“Oh man, _capped_ ,” says Bram. “That’s mushrooms, right there. That’s a very real vegetable, Simon.” He gives Simon a look of mock seriousness, then his face breaks and he’s laughing. 

Simon can feel that laugh in his whole body.

They get waffles, of course, from the waiter who turns out not to be Lyle, which is convenient. It’s an empty night at the Waffle House. Simon tries not to be too relieved about it. 

Talking is easier, after that, between big bites of waffles. Simon tells Bram about how Taylor Metternich is student directing the spring play, which will be a hilarious dictatorial mess, and Bram fills Simon in on how Nick had to run sprints seven times in a row during basketball practice because he kept missing free throws.

“So did you do the English reading yet?” Simon asks, after they’ve finished the waffles, then immediately cringes. He’s really asking about homework during their first maybe-date? Fake date. Hanging out as friends. 

Bram’s eyes light up, though. He really is a nerd about English, and Simon’s surprised all over again at how hot it is. 

“Yeah,” Bram says. “Did you? I really loved that story. I’d never read anything by him before.”

“I didn’t finish it yet,” Simon admits. “I know it’s only like seven pages. I was really liking it, but then I had to get ready.” Shit. “Not that I, like, _got ready_ for this. I had to put clothes on.” Fuck. “Not that I wasn’t wearing clothes--can we just rewind? To you telling me smart things about Raymond Carver?” 

But Bram’s not laughing at him, he’s smiling--sweet and a little bit shy, a little bit thrilled. 

“You got ready?” he says.

Simon blushes. “This is exactly the same thing I wear every day, though,” he says.

“Yeah, and it looks really good,” says Bram. “Every day.” His eyes are on Simon and it’s like Simon can feel them, heavy and slow.

“Hoodie chic,” Simon says, tries to laugh. 

“Yeah, and it works,” says Bram. He’s not laughing. It’s--it’s getting Simon really flustered, his whole body tightening. There’s something about hearing compliments he’d be into from Blue, coming from Bram--it makes this very real, all in a flash. 

_Bram’s actually into me,_ Simon realizes. He’d known, but maybe he hadn’t ever fully believed it until this moment--Bram, sitting here, looking at him like that. 

“Anyway,” says Bram, like he’s waking up, “you should definitely finish the story. The end is definitely the best part.”

They pay, and then they’re walking out to the parking lot, and Simon doesn’t know what happens next.

“My car’s over here,” he says, hesitating. 

“I’ll walk you,” Bram says, and Simon tries not to imagine that he scanned the parking lot first.

They’re at Simon’s car, too quickly, walking in silence. 

“See you tomorrow,” says Simon, just as Bram asks, in a rush, “Was this a date?”

Simon stares at him.

“I wasn’t sure,” Bram says. “When you--when you suggested it. What you really meant.” He looks around, not meeting Simon’s eyes. 

It’s the first time they’ve mentioned the emails, all night.

“I don’t know what I meant,” says Simon, quietly.

“Is it a date if I do this?” Bram asks.

Everything goes very still. And then Bram leans in, an offering and a question. His hand comes up like it’s going to touch Simon’s face and then hesitates, hovering.

Simon can’t think. The moment stretches, pulls, and then he’s leaning in and meeting Bram’s lips, feeling Bram’s hand come up to brush at his jaw. It’s soft heat, and pounding hearts. 

Bram's mouth against Simon's is sweet and gentle. And then he presses in, lips opening against Simon's, and Simon is flooded with tender, painful want. 

“Okay,” says Bram, pulling back. His eyes are big, and his smile is like a flicker of light. “Just checking.” 

Simon reaches for him and pulls him back in, a check of his own. _This is real, this is happening_. Bram feels so good under his hands, against his lips. 

“Okay,” Simon says, and he can feel himself smiling.

“Okay,” says Bram, again. His flicker of a smile has settled into a bright grin, happiness and disbelief. He looks at Simon. 

“Okay.” 

***

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 5 at 1:15 am  
SUBJECT: Cathedral

Bram--

I just finished reading. I can’t sleep; no idea why.

Anyway, just a note to say you’re right, the ending is the best part. I feel like I know what the narrator’s talking about: “I was in my house. I knew that. But I didn’t feel like I was inside anything.”

It’s really something.

Yours,  
Simon

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 5 at 1:27 am  
SUBJECT: Re: Cathedral

It was like nothing else in my life up to now.

Yours,  
Bram

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The short story they're talking about in this chapter is "Cathedral," by Raymond Carver. A great story, and a staple of advanced high school English. 
> 
> Bram's email to Simon is a direct quote from "Cathedral" (as it "It's really something," from Simon's email). My personal apologies to Carver for omitting the quotation marks--Simon, of course, gets that Bram is quoting from the story.


	7. Chapter 7

Fifth period crashes annoyingly into Simon’s daydreams, cutting through the memory of the way Bram’s thigh had pressed against his, the slight scratch of his cheek--god, was that _stubble_? Is that what it feels like?

“You _will_ need a partner for this project,” Mr. Rosen’s voice intrudes relentlessly, “which, as I said before, is due on _March 5_. That’s sooner than you think! Please write that down--yes, you, Jorge, write it down. Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time in class to work on it, and--” but no one is listening now that the traditional partner-choosing panic and all-out frenzy has begun. 

Simon sees Martin’s eyes slide towards him--god, Martin has really been persistent in his annoying attempts to apologize, and Simon needs to escape him. The problem is that none of his good friends are in AP World with him--they all took Gov, instead--and anyone he’s kind of cool with has already paired off in the time it took him to avoid Martin’s suggestive gaze. 

There’s just Martin, that hulking exchange student who mostly speaks German, and--

“Ethan,” Simon says, quickly. “Want to work together?”

Ethan’s eyebrows go way up, but he nods. Simon pulls his chair over to Ethan’s desk.

“Okay,” he says, “so, do you have any ideas about our topic? Because I thought we could do, like, postcolonial independence--”

Behind them, someone whispers something. There’s a stifled laugh, then more whispers.

“Don’t,” says Ethan, when Simon starts to turn around. “Only do that when you know.”

“Know what?” Simon asks, even though he kind of thinks he does know.

“Know they’re actually laughing at you, of course,” says Ethan. “If you get it wrong, it just makes you look _sad_ and defensive.”

“I didn’t--” says Simon.

“Sure,” says Ethan, in what Simon thinks of--used to think of--as his gayest voice. “Look, here’s the deal: you work with me, they’ll laugh at you. You work with Herr Hottie over there, they’ll laugh at him. If you work with a girl, it’s usually okay.” He brushes his hair back as he says it, defiant, and the bubble of warmth Simon’s been floating in for the past eighteen hours--buoyed, in second period, by the thrilling knowledge of Bram, just a few seats away from him--shrivels and pops. 

“Oh,” says Simon. He doesn’t know what else to say. 

Ethan must see something damning on his face, though, because he says, “Oh, honey,” in a softer tone.

“Has it been okay?” Ethan asks, and it’s so gentle that Simon’s throat feels tight. He nods, not trusting himself to talk.

“Well, good,” Ethan says. There’s an awkward silence, and then he opens his textbook, businesslike. “So, I think we should focus on something none of these other cretins are going to think to choose. For instance, Dumb and Dumber over there--” he nods towards the whisperers, from before-- “are absolutely going to do ‘popular protests,’ because to them that means Vietnam, which is like, armies and Woodstock boobs--”

“I think we should do the Protesting Inequalities one,” Simon says, abruptly. Ethan stares at him.

“Girl, you are insane,” he says. “You want to do a project about the global history of gay rights over time? You know that’s basically what it is, right? If you want to talk about gender inequality, we have to do ‘suffrage and feminism,’ and for race--”

“I know,” says Simon. He doesn’t know where this is coming from, except that it’s something about the way Ethan’s been talking. It’s like he’s mad, but he knows something secret at the same time, something that no one else knows. It’s making Simon feel weirdly jealous. And kind of reckless, and also like he has a lot to learn.

“You want the two of us to do a presentation to the class about gay rights,” says Ethan, still staring. “You must have a deathwish.”

“I mean, if you don’t want to,” Simon says, quickly. It dawns on him, suddenly, that Ethan might have no desire to be dragged into this with him. He’s such an idiot sometimes. “The postcolonial one sounds cool, too, like I said.”

“No, no,” Ethan says, slowly. “I think I kind of love it? I just never expected that you would be throwing bottles right alongside me, at our own little high school Stonewall.”

“What’s Stonewall?” asks Simon. Ethan laughs out loud.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says. “Well. This is going to be fun.”

Simon’s still thinking about the project after the bell rings, and it’s kind of a miracle that he’s so absorbed that he doesn’t even notice Bram until he’s standing right in front of Simon, leaning against his locker.

When he does see him, though, Simon’s whole body goes warm.

“Hey,” says Bram, a little nervously. He looks around. There are a few kids talking down at the other end of the hallway.

“Hi,” says Simon. Bram looks at him, then, instead of around them, and he smiles. He’s leaning one hand against the wall of lockers. It’s so big. Simon needs to stop thinking about that.

“I thought, uh,” says Bram. It’s cute that he’s so carefully worded in his emails, Simon thinks--it’s hot, how smart he is--but when he talks, he sounds nervous and imperfect and real. Simon blinks, focuses.

“I thought maybe we could, um, work on those English essays this weekend?” Bram asks.

“English essays?” asks Simon. Shit, did they have an essay he forgot about? He definitely turned in the Julius Caesar one, he knows that.

“Yeah,” says Bram, urgently. “ _English essays_.”

“Wow,” says Simon, getting it. “Yes. Yeah, um, I definitely need help with that.”

“Cool,” says Bram, relaxing. He ducks his head, smiles. “I’ll see you Sunday?”

“Sounds good,” says Simon, faintly. Bram swallows, looks around again, and then grabs Simon’s arm, briefly. His thumb rubs against Simon’s skin. Just for a second.

Simon can still feel it there, even after Bram is gone. 

***

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 6 at 4:32 am  
SUBJECT: Re: Cathedral

Dear Simon,

I might be slightly drunk right now, so please bear with me. Garrett had a party. I wanted you to be there--where were you tonight, Simon? What were you doing? I was very distracted, the whole party. I lost at Beirut seven times in a row. Maybe that’s why I’m drunk. A little bit. 

I’m sentence-fragmenting, just like you!

I was thinking about the last time we were at a party together. Not Nick’s party. Halloween. And I was thinking about Cathedral, because I keep re-reading that email you sent me, and it keeps making me feel like my heart is clenching, but in a good way. Do you know what I mean? Like it’s hard to breathe.

You wrote me an English paper once so here’s my (slightly) drunk one for you, Simon. You can grade it if you want. 

Bram’s Cathedral Paper For Simon, 2/6

“It was like nothing else in my life up to now,” Carver’s narrator says in “Cathedral,” as he draws the Cathedral with Robert, the blind man. Carver’s narrator is referring, literally, to the experience of drawing the Cathedral, of course, but he is also implicitly discussing the 

I’m too drunk to make this sound smart. I give that paper an F-. If I wasn’t drunk (just a little bit), I would write a paper that says that the narrator means that he’s never experienced anything like what he experiences when he lets go of all of his built-up prejudices, the ones that made him so wary of the blind man all night. He’s never experienced the kind of human connection he gets when he can finally let go of his fear of difference and meet the blind man in a place that they can both inhabit. When he lets the blind man put his hand over the narrator’s and feel what he’s drawing. When he trusts that it will be okay to do something like that with someone like that and see what it’s like and

Simon Simon Simon I like the way your name sounds and the way that it looks.

Simon, on Halloween I was drunk (more drunk than I am now) and I was stupid (even stupider than I am now) but more than that I was the narrator from Cathedral before he draws the Cathedral.

Maybe that doesn’t make sense. What I mean to say is that I thought somewhere deep deep inside me that maybe if I could kiss that girl--Aleisha, her name is Aleisha, but it could have been any girl--I would never have to let you put your hand over mine and draw something with me. Maybe if I kissed Aleisha it would be the right kind of feeling. I knew that it wouldn’t be but I wanted it to be, because I’m a coward and I was then and I am now and I wanted it to be easy.

Anyway long story short it wasn’t, it wasn’t, but it wasn’t until I kissed you that I knew I know now for sure that you are the it that was like nothing else in my life up to now. 

Love,  
Bram

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 6 at 9:13 am  
SUBJECT: Last email

Simon,

If you got an email from me last night, please do me a huge favor and delete it. I was really drunk. I sent you something and then I deleted it from my sent box, because drunk me is truly an idiot (as past events have proven). I think I remember what it says, but I’m not really sure, and whatever it is just know that I was VERY drunk.

God, I’m so sorry, I really apologize. 

Thanks so much,  
Bram


	8. Chapter 8

“You seem happy,” Simon’s dad says at dinner on Saturday. Simon shrugs and reaches for another piece of quiche.

“Nora, this is so good,” he says. “What did you put in it, again?”

“Seriously, honey,” his mom says at breakfast on Sunday. “I’m just so happy for you. Things seem like they’re a lot better, lately.”

“Yeah,” says Simon. “They’re fine, mom. Hey, I have a project due tomorrow so I told Bram from English class he could work on it here. That’s cool, right?”

He holds his breath, willing her not to focus on the pronoun. His parents just have a way of making a big deal out of things. It’s like they search for drama in his life.

Also, Simon realizes, it’s annoying that three months ago, he wouldn’t have had to think twice about this.

But he’s timed it well. She still has that “I’m so proud of you,” look on her face, the one Simon pretends to hate but secretly loves.

“Of course, sweetheart,” she says. “I might have to run out to the store at some point--just let me know if you guys need any snacks to help you power through.”

“Will do,” Simon says, trying to keep the relief out of his voice.

He’s lying on his bed, trying to will the second hand on the little clock icon on his phone to move faster, when Leah texts him.

_Come over later and study for bio? Slash get froyo?_

Simon rubs his face, flops over in bed.

 _I can’t, sorry_ , he texts back. _Have to finish this essay :( :( Froyo tomorrow?_

_Sure_

Simon waits, but there’s nothing else. He feels a uneasy weight in his stomach. It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell Leah about everything, he thinks for the hundredth time. It’s that he _can’t_. It’s not keeping a secret if it’s not _his_ secret.

 _You almost had me convinced that time,_ says his brain. Simon focuses on the digital second hand until the voice goes away again.

That actually helps time move a little faster, weirdly. He’s almost surprised when the bell rings, and he rushes downstairs so that he can save Bram from his parents’ inevitable interest in anyone and anything that is even remotely a part of his life.

He also rushes downstairs because, well. He can’t wait.

Bram’s there, on his doorstep. He looks so good, in the warm afternoon sunshine. He’s holding his backpack in front of him with both hands, like it’s a hat he’s taken off to be polite. For some reason, that’s the detail that makes Simon wish, painfully, that he could kiss Bram hello.

Not that they’re doing that, necessarily. Simon thinks that maybe they are, but--they haven’t really talked about it.

“Hey,” he says, instead. “Thanks for coming all the way over here.”

“Sure,” says Bram, nodding briefly. He looks more nervous than he did at Waffle House.

“We can, um, work in my room,” says Simon. “Or in the dining room. Whatever you want.”

“Do your parents--” Bram asks, trailing off. Simon shakes his head, but Bram still looks unsure, like he doesn’t want to be the one to make this decision.

“Come on,” Simon says, finally, adrenaline swooping through him. “We can go upstairs.”

Bram is tense until the door closes and then that grin flickers out, all of a sudden.

“Simon, we don’t actually have an English paper to work on,” says Bram, slowly, like he’s trying not to laugh. “What were we going to do at the dining room table?”

“Oh my god,” says Simon. He’s such an idiot, wow.

“You were very earnest,” says Bram. His voice is warm. “Maybe we would have written something great, just on the sheer strength of your earnestness.”

“Shut up,” says Simon. His face is bright red, he can feel it. “I forgot! I was hoping we’d work up here and I didn’t want to pressure you and then I completely forgot, oh my god.”

“We could have written the Great American Novel, such are your powers of imagination,” says Bram. His eyes are bright, and he’s biting his lip.

Simon looks at Bram and Bram looks at him and then they’re both laughing so hard that Simon collapses down to sit against his bed, holding his cheeks so they’ll stop hurting.

When he recovers, Bram’s standing there, looking at him. It’s a good look. It makes Simon wants to cover his face with his hands again, sort of, because it’s kind of a lot, to be looked at like that.

“So this is my room,” says Simon, just so Bram will have to look somewhere else.

Bram comes over and sits down next to him, and Simon keeps talking, nervously, just because he’s not really sure what’s supposed to happen next.

“That’s the desk where my dad thought for years that I sat and jerked off to ‘Gigi Habib,’ because he saw her in my search history once.”

He pauses, then admits, “I was trying to cover my tracks. I was looking at Zayn.”

Bram laughs again. His laugh is so nice, Simon thinks. He turns to see, again, what Bram looks like when he’s that happy, and then Bram’s face is right there, in front of his.

“Zayn, huh?” asks Bram, softly. His eyes are still laughing. “I was always more into Liam, myself.”

“What?” says Simon, genuinely taken aback. “Zayn is definitely the--”

And then he can’t say anything else, because Bram’s kissing him.

Bram’s mouth is warm against his. It’s slow and careful, both of them leaning in, not touching anywhere except where they’re kissing. The distance between their bodies feels like walking out to the edge of a high dive and looking down.

And then Simon shifts, opens his mouth against Bram’s, and the water is rushing up to meet him. Bram makes a noise against him and Simon needs more, reaches for it. His hands are on Bram’s sides. He can feel the heat of Bram, the quick rise and fall of his breath, through his t-shirt.

“Simon,” says Bram, into his mouth. His hands are at Simon’s temple, in his hair, his long fingers. Bram kisses his neck and it feels like everything in his body turns on at the same time, a hot sweeping rush.

It’s good. It’s so good. They’re still on the floor, and Simon fumbles for more, pulls at Bram until Bram’s kneeling over him, one thigh on either side of where Simon’s sitting up against the bed. Simon brings his hands down to Bram’s thighs, because they’re right _there_ , in front of him. Bram shifts, and muscles flex under his hands. Simon closes his eyes and kisses Bram, as hard as he can. His nose presses against Bram’s awkwardly and Bram’s teeth catch Simon’s lip and Simon doesn’t care. He kisses Bram’s mouth and his jaw and then his neck, the sweet skin of it that he’s stared at in class every day.

When they finally pull apart, Simon opens his eyes slowly. Bram’s--Bram’s half in his lap, and Simon’s pinned against the bed. Simon feels dizzy. He’s so hard, and he thinks that maybe Bram is too, but he can’t look, can’t think. Bram’s eyes are big, and he’s staring at Simon. His hand is still cupped against Simon’s head, and he rubs a thumb down Simon’s cheek. Simon shivers. He lets his eyes close, and then he feels Bram’s mouth on his neck again.

Simon wants to tell Bram how good it feels, how much he likes it, but he can’t. All he can do is lean back and try to get more of it, except that his stupid bed is in the way and all he can do is squirm and push against Bram and give up and kiss him back, again and again and again.

His fingers are pulling at Bram’s shirt unconsciously, little frantic hitches, and he wasn’t even trying but all of a sudden he can feel Bram’s skin, his bare skin. He flattens his hands out, feeling the sweep of Bram’s back, his spine.

“Simon,” says Bram, and, god, the way his voice sounds. “Let me--” and then Bram’s reaching for the hem of Simon’s shirt, pulling it up, and Simon opens his eyes to see Bram looking at him for a long breath before he reaches out and touches, thumbing at Simon’s side, spanning his hands over him.

God, Bram’s hands. They’re so big and they look even bigger like this, like he could cover all of Simon’s skin. The thought’s so good that Simon makes a involuntary noise, one of the ones he has to muffle with a pillow when he’s jerking off.

Bram’s hands tighten against him, and Simon pulls at him. He can't get enough. It's like there’s all this need inside him that's been growing and growing, for months now, and then Bram sent him that _email_ \--it’s all he can feel, and he can’t do anything with it except this.

All he can think is _I want, I want, I want_ , and he kisses Bram again and it’s messier this time, more desperate, and--

He hears the creak of footsteps on the stairs.

By the time his mom opens Simon’s door he’s lying facedown on the bed, laptop open, and Bram’s sitting at his desk, staring determinedly at a copy of _Strunk and White_.

“How’s the essay going?” his mom asks. “Do you boys want a snack? I’ll bring up some apples.”

“We’re fine, mom,” Simon says, trying to sound casual. He focuses on his screen, the random Wikipedia page he opened in a panic.

_**Anapliomera** is a genus of trilobites in the order Phacopida, which existed in what is now Illinois, U.S.A. It was described by Demott in 1987._

“Well, let me know if you need anything,” his mom says. “I’ll be right downstairs. Dinner’s in an hour so finish up soon, okay?”

She smiles at Simon, then leaves the door open behind her when she goes.

***

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 7 at 10:10 pm  
SUBJECT: Fossils

Bram,

Did you know how cool fossils actually are? You probably didn’t, because fossils are incredibly, impressively boring.

After you left I panicked and told my mom that our essay was a creative writing project about trilobite fossils. I guess it’s clear that I don’t think well under pressure, especially not when it comes to lying about English assignments.

It turns out that my father used to collect fossils, which is exactly the kind of uncool dad fact I wish I’d known sooner, so that I could have made fun of him for it. Unfortunately, he had the upper hand today. We spent two hours looking at his collection.

Fossils are _so_ boring, Bram.

Yours,  
Simon

P.S. You know what isn’t boring? Kissing you. Kissing you isn’t boring at all.

P.P.S. I hope you weren’t freaked out when my mom left the door open. She didn’t know, I promise. She’s just implemented this weird “door always open” policy since I came out, so that she doesn’t have to feel like she’s discriminating against my guy friends, or something. Leah is the only exception.

P.P.P.S. I hope it’s not weird to say that I really liked it when you kissed my neck.

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 7 at 11:33 pm  
SUBJECT: Re: Fossils

Simon,

I don’t know about fossils being boring. If they inspire emails like the one you just sent me, then I have to put myself firmly on the pro-fossil side of things.

Your stories about your family are always hilarious, Simon. I love my parents, but they’re so different than yours. My mom and my dad are both very quiet, in a good way. I have a lot of serious discussions with my parents, which has always been one of the things I’ve loved the most about them. But I laugh more when I’m around you than I ever have before. It seems like your whole family is like that, which is so wonderful.

On the subject of your family--okay, I will admit that I was a little freaked out about the door. Thanks for explaining it. I still hate that I’m asking you to keep secrets, especially from your parents. I don’t know how to make it up to you. I’ll kiss your neck as much as you want, if that helps.

Yours,  
Bram

P.S. Kissing you is the least boring activity on earth, I’m fairly sure. It’s a little too exciting, in fact. I’m glad my drive home is so long.

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 8 at 12:04 am  
SUBJECT: Re: Fossils

Bram, PLEASE don’t give me some kind of pavlovian sexual response to a conversation that began with FOSSILS. Your drive home?? Too excited????

You always drop these hints for me and then leave me to be… too excited, all alone. Which is also what happened when you kissed my neck, incidentally. And when you touched me. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you how much I like your hands.

Okay, I’m going to send this now before I delete all of it.

Yours,  
Simon

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 8 at 12:20 am  
SUBJECT: Re: Fossils

Simon,

You’re right, we should probably change the subject line of this email thread.

I’m sorry that I keep leaving you hanging, Simon. The truth is that I barely know what I’m doing when I talk about these things. I don’t want to get something wrong, or do something embarrassing.

I can barely believe I’m going to type this, but I agree that I probably owe it to you.

When I said kissing you is too exciting, I meant that it got me so hard I could barely think. Simon, you have no idea what you look like after you’ve been thoroughly kissed, do you? You have no idea what it feels like when you put your hands on me. You can’t possibly have any idea that you were making these little noises that I will think about until the day I die.

So, anyway, that’s what I meant. I’ll also send this before I get too embarrassed. (That might be a lost cause.)

Yours,  
Bram

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 8 at 12:26 am  
SUBJECT: Re: Fossils

Oh my god, Bram.

Oh my god.

Bram, I’ve practically been hard since you walked into my room. If you think looking at fossils with your dad for two hours is fun in the best of circumstances, try doing it when you’re so turned on from kissing the hottest guy you’ve ever seen that you can barely think.

I can barely think right now, Bram.

Just tell me that next time I kiss you, it can be somewhere with a door that locks. I want to see what you look like without a shirt on. I want to touch you everywhere. When you hold my head in your hands like that and kiss me, it feels like I'm going to shake apart into a million pieces. 

I feel crazy. I hope I’m not freaking you out.

I’m going to save this email thread for a long time.

God, Bram.

Goodnight.


	9. Chapter 9

“So,” Leah says as they’re eating their fro-yo, “as usual, Creekwood High is completely capitulating to the unrealistic capitalist demands of the greeting card industry. It’s disgusting.”

Leah’s always saying things like that. It’s one of the things Simon loves about her, even if he rarely understands what she’s talking about. 

“Okay, back up,” says Simon. “What’s happening?”

“Haven’t you noticed the posters? They’re, like, _advertising_ it to us. Because god forbid Valentine’s Day falls on a weekend this year and spares us all the horror of Official School PDA Day, they’re making us do it on Friday.”

“How can they make it be Friday?” asks Simon. “It’s just going to be on Sunday, no matter what.”

“Well, we’re officially celebrating it at school on Friday,” says Leah, “so that will be fun. I think I’ll wear all black.”

“Right, that’ll be a change,” says Simon, and Leah gives him the middle finger. Then her face falls.

“God, if those assholes try what they did to Ethan last year to you,” she says, “I’ll legitimately rip their balls off.”

Last year someone had left a bouquet of dildos in front of Ethan’s locker. “Amazing,” he’d said. “It’s so nice that you don’t need these anymore now that your erectile dysfunction issues are getting better and you can fuck your mom with your real penis!”

Simon doesn’t know if he’s equipped to handle something like that. 

“They won’t,” he says. He doesn’t think they will. Ms. Albright really did a number on the school about the safe space policy. They sent notes home about it and everything, and he had to have a conversation with his parents that involved his dad trying not to cry. He doesn’t really want to think about it, actually. 

“Yeah, well,” Leah says. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I wish Blue had shown up at the carnival, you know? You could be having a whole romantic Valentine’s Day right now, and I could be living vicariously through you.”

Simon doesn’t know what to say, so he eats more fro-yo. It’s raspberry, which is usually his favorite flavor, but it’s pretty tasteless. 

“Sorry,” Leah says. “He was a dick, Simon. You deserve a lot better. Someone who will show up for you, you know?”

“Yeah,” Simon says. He really, really doesn’t want to talk about this. 

“So do you think Nick and Abby will join in the PDA parade?” he asks, instead.

Leah rolls her eyes. “Undoubtedly.” 

She’s still kind of weird about Nick and Abby, and Simon can’t tell why. Maybe it’s a general jealousy thing. 

Simon’s a little jealous of them sometimes, actually. Not that he’s jealous of either of them, individually. But sometimes he watches the way Nick throws an arm around Abby’s should while they’re walking down the hall. Or how she leans in to kiss him on the cheek before they have to separate for homeroom. 

He just notices it, that’s all.

He tries hard not to notice anything at all on Friday, but it’s tough. Leah was right, the Creekwood powers that be are all-in on this fake Valentine’s Day charade. There are red and pink streamers everywhere, and Mr. Worth is wearing a tie covered in kittens and hearts. 

The worst part is that they scheduled the stupid carnation exchange for second period. The carnation exchange is supposed to be a school-spirit thing, a student government fundraiser. You buy carnations for all your friends, and then they get delivered to everyone during the school day. But of course, it always turns into a totally messed up popularity contest.

Simon bought carnations for Abby and Leah, even though he knows Leah’s boycotting the whole thing. Still, it sucks to be that kid who doesn’t get a single flower. He also threw one in for Nick, just because Julie Lacca said “just two?” in this really snotty voice when he put in his order.

You can send the carnations anonymously, too. It’s not like Simon didn’t think about it. But he doesn’t know if they’re doing--that. Just because they made out like that doesn’t mean it’s a carnation-level thing. 

Thinking about making out makes Simon look over at Bram, for the hundredth time this week. The thousandth. The one-millionth. 

Bram is chewing on the eraser of his pencil. Simon thinks about what it felt like when Bram’s teeth scraped against his lips, because they were kissing so hard. It was really good. And the way he’d started to pull Simon’s shirt up. What if he’d kept going? Are they going to do that? Simon thinks about Bram kissing his chest. If it feels that good when Bram kisses his neck, then what--

Bram turns to look at him, and Simon feels his face get hot. Bram raises his eyebrows, and Simon blushes harder. Under the desk, he digs his fingers into his thighs. _Get it together, Spier,_ he thinks.

Just then, Julie and two other kids from student government burst in with bags full of ugly carnations. 

“Please make it quick,” Mr. Wise is saying. “We have a lot to get through.”

Everyone in the class watches the carnation distribution like it’s the season finale of the Bachelorette. 

The only one who gets no carnations is that kid whose name Simon doesn’t know, who’s like some kind of homeschooler who only comes for AP English. Lauren Lake gets twenty-six, which Julie actually announces is a record. Everyone applauds sarcastically. Taylor Metternich gets a solid ten. Bram, Simon notices, gets three. 

Simon gets five. They come with little tags attached to them, with the names on them. He turns the tags over one at a time. The first one is from Abby. The next one is from Leah, who must have given up on her boycott this year. The third one is from Nick, which is sweet. 

The fourth one is from Martin, ugh. 

Simon fingers the tag of the fifth one. He doesn’t know who else would send him a carnation. Maybe, he thinks. He turns the tag over.

It’s from Taylor Metternich. “Theater club love!,” it says. You have to pay extra to put messages on them. No one does it.

The rest of the day is increasingly obnoxious. Even after the final bell, Simon has to walk through a parking lot full of half-copulating couples using cars as the closest thing they can find to horizontal surfaces.

He gets to his car, and jesus. Lauren Lake is leaning against his door, making out with whatever bulky football player she’s dating this week.

“I’m sorry,” says Simon. “Do you guys want my car keys, so you can drive yourselves to a hotel room?”

“Sorry,” says Lauren, rolling her eyes. She whispers to Football Player, then glares at Simon as she walks away.

Simon gets in and slams the door shut. Fuck. 

He goes to put his bag on the passenger seat, but there’s something there. It’s wrapped in brown paper. 

Simon tears open the paper, and a book slides out. _What We Talk About When We Talk About Love,_ it says on the cover. _Raymond Carver_. 

He opens it, slowly. There’s a note on the inside cover. 

_For Simon_  
_Here’s to more conversations about more stories, over waffles and email alike._  
_♥_  
_B_  


On the way out of the parking lot, Simon passes Lauren again. He stops, rolls the window down.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” he shouts. She looks at him, confused, and shakes her head. Simon gives her a wide smile.

“Loser,” he hears her say to the football player. Simon’s still smiling. He can’t stop.

***

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 12 at 6:55 pm  
SUBJECT: Thank you

Bram,

Thank you so much for the book. I can’t tell you how much it made my day, which was not going super well up until that moment.

I’m so sorry I didn’t get you anything. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure if we were doing that. Presents. I got you something this afternoon, though. I hope it’s not too lame. Maybe there’s a time I could give it to you? Let me know.

Happy Fake Valentine’s Day,  
Simon

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 13 at 12:32 am  
SUBJECT: Re: Thank you

Simon,

You’re very welcome. I can’t believe you leave your car unlocked like that, though. I know the Creekwood parking lot is as safe as it gets, but do you realize anyone could leave something in there?

Don’t worry, I didn’t expect a present or anything, really. I know we didn’t talk about today. I just saw that book in the store and thought of you. 

I was going to ask you if you wanted to hang out on the real Valentine’s Day, actually. If you got me something (not that you needed to!) you can give it to me then. My mom is spending the weekend with my perpetually heartbroken aunt, who apparently needs extra support at this time of year. Which is to say, I’ll have the house to myself, if you’d like to come over. 

I’m sorry today was hard, and I’m glad the book made it a little bit better. I’m feeling a little exhausted by all the hetero hormones flying around, myself. 

Yours,  
Bram

P.S. You said something, earlier, about a door that locks. I know it’s redundant if my mom will be out of town anyway, but my bedroom does have a lock. 

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 13 at 11:07 am  
SUBJECT: Re: Thank you

Bram,

I didn’t expect a present from you, either. I know it’s not like that. But thank you, anyway. And I want to get you something! It’s a little bit of a selfish present, maybe. You’ll see. 

Yes, of course I want to come over on Valentine’s Day, are you kidding? I want to hang out with you in your room, which has a door that locks. You’re killing me. You always kill me. 

English is getting hard to sit through. You’re distracting. It’s hard to sit behind you. I haven’t seen anything Mr. Wise has written on the board in weeks. I’ve barely heard anything he’s said. Thank god I have you to keep me on track with the short stories. 

Yours,  
Simon

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 13 at 12:40 pm  
SUBJECT: Re: Thank you

Simon,

If you think it’s distracting to sit behind me, you should try sitting in front of _you_ and imagining, for the whole class, what you’re doing. Are you doing that thing where you lean one elbow on your desk and run your fingers through your hair, in deep concentration? Then you sit up and your hair's all wild, for the rest of class. Sometimes you’re listening to someone so carefully that your mouth drops open a little bit, and all I can think about are your lips. 

I spend all class trying not to turn around and stare at you.

I can’t wait to see you.

Until tomorrow,  
Bram

P.S. It’s like that if you want it to be like that, Simon. It’s like whatever you want it to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So "Cathedral" is actually in a different Carver short story collection (conveniently also called "Cathedral"). I have two excuses: one, they've already talked about Cathedral, so these stories are all new. Second, as I imagine it, Bram couldn't resist the title of the the one he gave Simon, of course.


	10. Chapter 10

“Hi,” says Bram, opening the door. He looks as nervous as Simon feels. It’s still weird, to talk to each other like this. In person. Weirder than it is when they’re pretending nothing’s going on at school, somehow. 

Simon knows how to _be_ , with that Bram. With this one, he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to kiss him. Is that weird? Would a hug be weirder?

He settles for, “hey.” 

“So,” says Bram. “Um. Want to see my room?”

Simon follows Bram, taking in the house as he goes. It’s a big house. He knows Bram’s mom has some fancy job--the house is all modern, big countertops and a lot of glass. Simon sees the living room where they did karaoke, that time. 

Bram’s room isn’t the same as the room Simon saw him in on Halloween, which is strangely relieving. It’s pretty small, given the size of the house, and he only has a single bed. The room is completely full of books. There are three full bookcases, and then more books piled on the floor, against the walls, all over Bram’s desk. Simon sees a bunch on his bed. One of them, _Giovanni's Room_ , is lying open, facedown. 

“Oh yeah,” says Bram, seeing him looking. “It’s good. Pretty intense, though.”

“You make me want to read more,” Simon says, and Bram grins at him. 

“You make me want to improve my taste in music,” he says. “Although, speaking of. You _do_ need to appreciate Kendrick if we’re going to be hanging out, so.”

He goes over to his laptop and puts something on Spotify. It’s nice, having music on. It makes the silences that keep popping up feel easier. 

“So, I got you a present,” Simon says. He’d been kind of worried about it, but now that he’s seen Bram’s room, he’s feeling a little better. Still-- “It might be kind of dumb,” he says. “I didn’t want to, like, copy you, but.” 

When Bram opens it, though, his eyes get all big and he smiles in a way that makes Simon feel warm all over. 

“ _Lunch Poems_ ,” he says. “Frank O’Hara! Simon. This is a really, really good present.”

“Kind of hard to beat yours,” says Simon, and Bram looks so pleased and shy that Simon can’t help it, he has to kiss him.

He reaches up, wraps a hand around the back of Bram’s neck so that he can pull him in, and Bram just--shudders, and then they’re kissing. Bram feels so good, and Simon’s been thinking about this for so long. He slides his other hand up under Bram’s shirt, wanting everything.

Bram trembles again and then his hands are in Simon’s hair, and when Simon kisses him harder Bram tightens and pulls, and a sharp sweet pain flows through Simon and makes him gasp.

“Your _noises_ , I _told_ you,” Bram is saying into his mouth, and Simon just can’t stop kissing him. It’s better than he remembered. He keeps pressing towards Bram like he can get even more of him, and then Bram is stumbling backwards into the bed. They fall onto it, still kissing. A bunch of books clatter to the floor.

“Sorry,” says Simon, “sorry, sorry.” He’s still kissing Bram, though--his neck, the little dip in between his collar bones. He sucks right there, and Bram’s whole body shakes.

“It’s fine,” says Bram in a strangled voice. “Just--don’t stop.” Simon doesn’t. He still has one hand under Bram’s shirt, and it’s all tangled there. When he tries to get it back Bram’s shirt comes halfway off, and then Bram makes a frustrated noise and pulls the whole thing over his head.

“Oh,” says Simon, and leans back in. He can feel the heat of Bram’s skin through his shirt, and it’s so tempting, close, that he sits up again to fumble his own shirt off. He gets it over his head and sees Bram, lying back on the bed, looking up at Simon. There’s a mark on his neck from where Simon was kissing him. His hands come up to touch Simon and they’re so big. His fingers feel so good, so good, and when he tightens them to pull Simon back in Simon groans out loud. 

He’s hard, he realizes. Like really, really hard, and he’s moving over Bram, their skin pressing together. Bram gets one hand back in Simon’s hair and tightens it and then he’s kissing Simon’s neck, sucking at it, and Simon’s going to come if they don’t stop right now.

He should stop. He should wait. They should probably talk about this. Instead he just shifts his body against Bram’s again, searching for--for _more_. Bram’s thigh slots between Simon’s and Simon makes another noise.

“Oh god,” says Bram. “Are you?” 

Simon buries his face in Bram’s neck. “Sorry,” he says, into the skin there. “I can--we should stop.” He really doesn't want to stop.

“Yeah,” says Bram. “I mean, unless--Can I--”

He’s moving his hand. It scrapes against Simon’s stomach and then it’s hovering against the fly of his jeans. Simon bites his lip, then pulls his head up so Bram can see him nod.

Bram tries to get his jeans open, but the angle’s so bad that Simon has to sit up, and then Bram can do it with both hands. His hands are shaking. Bram’s _hands_. And then his jeans are open and Bram’s reaching in for him and his dick’s so hard that it gets caught, and Simon has to pull his jeans the rest of the way down and then Bram’s hand is wrapped around him. Bram looks into Simon’s eyes for a long moment. He’s just--touching Simon, and he’s breathing so hard.

Simon can’t. It’s too much. He moves forward, kisses Bram again. Bram’s mouth is hot and wet and his hand is still on Simon, it’s moving now, and it feels so good, so much better than Simon knew anything in the world could feel. Simon _wants_. His hand is on Bram’s waistband before he knows it, and he’s saying “please,” and now Bram’s shuddering again.

“Yes,” Bram says, and Simon slips his hand under Bram’s basketball shorts. His dick is right there, warm and hard, and when Simon’s hand closes around it Bram makes a soft noise.

They’re almost falling off the bed, and there are still some books buried in the covers, and Simon can barely move his hand like this, and he can’t stop. Bram’s mouth is back on his neck and he’s gasping into Bram’s ear and every time he makes noise Bram’s hand moves faster. Everything about it is so good that Simon can’t breathe, he’s fighting for air, and then Bram scrapes his teeth against Simon’s neck and Simon’s coming. He comes so hard that he’s shaking, and he’s trying to kiss Bram even though it’s still hard to breathe, and Bram feels so good in his hand. Simon never wants to stop touching him like this. Every time he moves his hand Bram’s hips come up, like he’s trying to get more. Simon moves his hand and kisses him and when Bram comes it’s incredible--his whole body tenses in one long rush and he makes a hurt, sweet noise. 

Simon rolls to the side, onto another piles of books. He’s breathing so hard. He can hear Bram breathing, next to him.

Bram’s Spotify is still playing, and the music sounds like Simon’s whole body feels--a pounding heartbeat, a floating melody: _I wanna be with you,_ Simon hears. _I wanna be with you._

“Thank you,” Simon says, because that was the best. 

Next to him, Bram laughs out loud. 

“You did not just say ‘thank you.’” 

Simon would blush, if his body had any blood left. 

“What!” he says. “Is that not--it was really good!”

Bram’s still laughing, but the sound is so fond that Simon is just glad he can make Bram this happy.

“Simon, you don’t have to thank me. I’ve been thinking about that for months. More than months.”

“Oh,” says Simon. “I--wow.”

“Thank _you_ ,” says Bram.

Simon turns over on his side to look at him. 

Bram’s smile is so good that Simon has to kiss him again, at least until he realizes that he should probably go and clean himself up. Bram uses the bathroom after him, and while he’s gone Simon looks around his room some more. 

There are a few posters of basketball players, none of whom Simon recognizes except for Michael Jordan. He's not _that_ sports-illiterate. There are two piles of dirty clothes, a soccer ball, and a shelf crammed with dusty plastic trophies of little golden men kicking, hitting, and throwing balls. But mostly, there are books.

Bram alphabetizes his books, he notices. The ones on the shelves, at least. 

“So,” Bram says, when he gets back. “I actually had a whole plan for this afternoon, and this wasn’t part of it, believe it or not. Not that this wasn’t way better than anything else that could have happened.” His whole face is so bright when he smiles like that. 

“But,” he’s saying. “If you wanted, I thought maybe--well, since we didn’t get to do a whole romantic thing at school--”

He pulls something out of his closet. It’s a picnic basket. There’s a picnic blanket in it, and the Valentine’s day edition pink oreos, and wine glasses, and milk in a thermos. There’s even a little jam jar full of flowers.

“I don’t know,” says Bram. “Maybe this is stupid. I know the oreos thing was kind of a joke--”

“Bram,” says Simon. He thinks, absurdly, that he might cry. 

Bram must hear something in his voice, because he stops apologizing for the picnic basket. 

“Okay,” he says. When he kisses Simon this time, it’s easy and sweet and it makes something in Simon pull, aching. 

Simon cradles Bram’s face in his hands and kisses him back. He’s figuring out what Bram likes, how to deepen the kiss so that Bram’s body will melt into his. 

“Simon,” Bram whispers. He’s so beautiful it makes Simon’s chest hurt. Simon looks and looks and then he kisses Bram again.

It’s slower this time, more careful. They take their time with each other: lifting shirts off between lingering kisses, stepping out of pants that pool on the ground. Simon lets his attention be caught by Bram’s chest, his slim muscles, his skin. When his lips touch the brown circle of Bram’s nipple he shivers, and his fingers tighten in Simon’s hair.

“I want to see you,” Bram says, quietly, and Simon doesn’t have to ask what he means. He lets Bram run his fingers under the elastic of his boxers, pausing there before he slides them down. Bram rests his head against Simon’s shoulder when Simon reaches for him, turns into Simon’s neck and kisses him there while Simon’s hands tremble against his waistband, then the bare skin of his hips.

“Come here,” Bram says, and pulls Simon over to the bed. Simon kisses him again and again, until Bram sinks down onto the mattress.

“Here,” Bram says again, and Simon comes. He’s in Bram’s lap, practically, kneeling there on his twin mattress, and Bram’s hand is between his legs and it’s slow, this time, so slow. 

Simon looks at the width of Bram’s hand around him, the length of his fingers. It shouldn’t be so hot, he thinks, that Bram’s hand looks so huge against his dick, but for some reason it is: Simon can’t take his eyes off of it, leans his forehead against Bram’s and watches the slide of his fingers.

It takes longer, because he’s just come, but somehow it’s better—the slow ache, the need that ratchets higher and higher. He shifts his hips, searching for more, and his dick brushes against Bram’s. Bram makes a bitten-off noise and Simon does it again, shifts into him, and then Bram gives in and wraps that huge hand around both of them at the same time. 

It’s that image that finally tips Simon over the edge, whiting out the edges of his vision. He comes all over Bram’s hand and his dick, trying to bury the noises he makes in Bram’s shoulder.

“Don’t,” says Bram, urgently, “please let me hear you, Simon,” and when Simon lifts his head and moans at the feeling of Bram still touching him, the aftershocks, Bram comes, stuttering.

They lie on the bed together, sticky and shivering. 

“Don’t say thank you,” says Bram, and this time Simon laughs.

“Thank god you planned the world’s best surprise,” says Simon, “because I’m officially starving.” He feels like he could eat anything in the world. He could eat the whole world.

They eat on the floor, still naked. Even the lukewarm milk is the best thing Simon’s ever tasted.

***

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 14 at 11:02 pm  
SUBJECT: Question

Bram,

Weird question. What’s the Kendrick song you played, the one that was on right before I said thank you, like an idiot? I can’t get it out of my head. You probably have no idea what I’m talking about. Sorry.

Here’s a song for you, in exchange. Leah told me about this band a few years ago and sometimes their music is just the right music for the way you feel. The way I feel. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hI0KixwOqrk 

Sorry if this email is a mess. My brain’s kind of a mess, in a good way. In the best possible way. 

<3

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 14 at 11:43 pm  
SUBJECT: Re: Question

Simon,

I actually know exactly what song you’re talking about. I take it my Kendrick Lamar indoctrination is working: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ox7RsX1Ee34

I like when you send me music I haven't heard before, Simon. I really like that you feel the way that song feels. I hope I'm not reading into the lyrics too much. Sometimes, I can't turn my brain off when it comes to you. Which is to say, my brain's a mess right now, too. I can't be articulate about today, so you'll have to settle for me chickening out and letting a poem do the talking for me.

1 attachment: [anne sexton.pdf](https://78.media.tumblr.com/f6b1d3ba7b8ad1b66dcff93fcc5e3df4/tumblr_mqayxdgq2R1qz6f9yo1_500.jpg)

Love,  
Bram

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 14 at 11:52 pm  
SUBJECT: Re: Question

Jesus, Bram. That poem. You just had that lying around? I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, you kind of live inside of a library. Is that what the inside of your brain looks like?

Before today my body was useless, too.

I guess I didn’t know anything could be like that.

Love,  
Simon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super-fun bonus content: here's the only other extant live recording of "Going to Queens" that I could find, with an intro by John Darnielle that may or may not add another layer to the tooth-rotting sweetness of this chapter.


	11. Chapter 11

Simon barely makes it out of second period intact at school on Monday. It starts when Bram brushes against him on his way to his seat, his hip sliding against Simon’s back as he squeezes past some kid who’s crouched over his backpack, looking for the homework. 

Simon knows what Bram’s hips feel like under his hands, now, is the problem. 

It’s a lost cause after that. When Bram twirls his pencil around idly, Simon thinks about Bram’s fingers and the pencil turns into his dick. When Bram scratches a spot above his ear, Simon thinks about the taste of the spot right underneath it, the little hollow there that made Bram’s whole body go tight. 

He spends ten minutes in the bathroom after class, convincing his body to calm down, already. And it would probably be fine for the rest of the day, except that apparently Mondays have become official basketball lunch club days.

“That kid from St. Clements has a sick eurostep, did you see that?” Garrett is saying. 

“Wait, I don’t get it. He’s European?” asks Abby.

Nick starts to explain something nuanced about shifting and faking, or something. Simon’s trying not to look at Bram. It’s hard, when Bram is sitting right next to Leah, across the table, but he just can’t. 

He can’t look at Bram right now and not see everything he saw yesterday. He can’t conjure up the other Bram that usually gets him through lunch. 

“Veto,” says Leah.

“What?” says Garrett.

“I _veto_ this conversation,” says Leah. “If you guys want to run around dunking on each other or whatever after school then more power to you. I’ll even come to the games, because I am a truly amazing friend. But I absolutely will no longer discuss this during lunch. Simon, back me up here.”

Maybe it’s that he’s seen Bram naked, Simon thinks. Now that he knows what he looks when--god, when he’s coming. What his face does. The way his stomach rises and falls afterward, fast, because he’s breathing so hard.

“ _Simon,_ ” Leah is saying. “Excuse me? Earth to Simon?”

“What?” says Simon. “I mean, yes. Veto. Unless you guys don’t want to, then no veto. I mean. Basketball is kind of cool, I guess.”

Leah’s staring at him like he’s just declared his undying love for Martin Addison. 

“Okay,” she says, slowly, drawing out the first syllable. “So clearly you all broke Simon with this heinously boring conversation, and we’re absolutely going to move on to something else.”

There’s a long silence. 

“So,” says Garrett.

“I know,” says Abby. “Did you hear the announcement about prom king voting this morning? It’s such a messed up tradition.”

“Abby,” says Leah. “You’ll probably win prom queen, okay? Don’t be self-deprecating.”

“It’ll absolutely be Lauren,” says Nick. “Not that you don’t deserve it, babe. I know who I’m voting for.” He kisses Abby. Leah makes a gagging noise. 

Simon reads the back label of his milk. 

_CONTAINS LESS THAN 1% OF: COCOA (PROCESSED WITH ALKALI)_

“I feel like Bram could totally be prom king,” says Nick, suddenly.

Bram laughs. 

_CORNSTARCH, SALT, CARAGEENAN_

“No, wait, hear me out,” says Nick. “I mean, it’s usually kind of a dark horse, right? Like, it’s not gonna be Jason because everyone who isn’t on the football team hates him. And it’s not gonna be, like, Martin, god, and who else would the theater kids vote for?”

Abby coughs. 

“No offense, Simon,” says Nick. “I mean--”

“Why couldn’t it be Simon?” Bram asks. 

Simon sneaks a look up from the milk. Bram catches his eye, and grins. 

“I mean, unless Creekwood’s gotten, like, a thousand percent more woke in the last month and I missed it,” says Leah, “I don’t know if the whole school is ready for a gay prom king, although obviously Simon _deserves_ it. Although the theater kids totally would vote for him, Nick, duh.”

Next to Leah, Bram’s stopped smiling. 

“You might be underestimating people, just saying,” says Garrett. 

There’s an awkward silence. 

“It’s not like I would ever want to be prom king anyway, so no one draft a change.org petition or anything,” Simon says, because it feels like everyone’s waiting for him to say something. He taps the milk carton. “Did you guys have any idea what’s _in_ this?”

Still, he’s kind of thinking about it for the rest of the day. Not being prom king, because it’s not like he was popular enough for it even before he became Creekwood’s Second Gay. 

Just—the look on Bram's face, when they were talking about it.

It kind of nags at him until the end of the day, when Bram catches his arm as he’s walking down the hall.

“Hey,” says Bram. “Come here?” He gestures to the boy’s bathroom. It’s end-of-the-day empty, tiles echoing.

“Sorry if this is gross,” says Bram. It’s hard to think when he’s this close to Simon. There’s a faint purple shadow of a mark on his neck where Simon was kissing him yesterday. You would never see it if you didn’t know exactly where to look.

“I just wanted—” says Bram, and kisses him. 

Simon’s up against the door of a stall, and they stumble through it. In the tiny space, Bram takes up so much room. His hands are hot on Simon’s hips where he’s holding him.

“It’s hard to sit through lunch with you,” says Bram into his ear. He kisses Simon’s neck, and Simon bites down on his lip so he won’t make noise.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday,” says Bram, and Simon says, “God, Bram, me neither,” and when Bram kisses him this time it’s swift and fierce and Simon’s head knocks back against the side of the stall. 

Simon’s teeth catch Bram’s lip. He’s trapped between Bram and the stall, and Bram’s hips are up against his, an aching pressure. Simon wraps his arms around Bram’s neck, digs fingers into the hair at the bottom of his head, the bumps of his spine. His elbow hits the door; the stall shakes. Nothing fits. 

Bram’s mouth is hot against his and Simon bites at him again, messy, scrabbling. He can’t get enough. He can feel sweat pooling in the dip of his back, his shirt sliding wet against the plastic wall behind him. Bram’s fingers tighten against his hips and he ducks his mouth back down to Simon’s neck, lingers at the corner of his jaw. 

Something vibrates in Simon’s pocket, once, then again, insistently. He’s pressed so tightly against Bram that he can feel the rumble of it echo back through Bram’s body. 

“Shit, sorry,” he says, and when they break apart Bram is flushed. He rubs a hand over his mouth, where his skin is shining. 

Leah’s face fills Simon’s phone screen. He cancels the call. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I have to give her a ride home--I forgot. I don’t want her to come looking--”

“Yeah,” says Bram. “Yeah, no, of course. Sorry, I just. Saw you.”

“Yeah,” says Simon. He’s grinning, he can feel it on his face, the heat of it.

“You wanna, um,” says Bram. “I mean, you go, I’ll hang back.”

“Oh,” says Simon. “Right. Uh. Hang on.” He takes three deep breaths, but he still has to reach down and readjust himself. He’s so hard, god. If anyone saw him right now they’d know. 

Bram’s watching him. Simon flushes. 

“Sorry,” he says.

“Are you kidding?” says Bram. “Me too.” He’s leaning back against the other side of the stall, all loose limbs. He’s breathing hard, too.

“I was so hard in English,” Simon admits, wildly. 

“Simon,” says Bram. “You can’t say that to me.” Simon’s about to apologize again, but Bram says, “I’ll fail the class if I’m imagining that the whole time, are you kidding?”

“Oh,” says Simon. He wants to kiss Bram again, so he does. This time he’s the one pressing Bram back against the side of the stall. He slides a hand up Bram’s side, catches at the edge of his shirt. 

“Leah,” Bram says, in a reluctant voice.

“Oh,” says Simon. “Right.” He kisses Bram’s collarbone where it peeks out from the neck of his shirt.

His phone vibrates again. Simon groans.

“Go,” says Bram. Simon kisses him one last time, memorizes the feeling of Bram’s mouth opening under his. Then he leaves.

“Where _were_ you?” Leah asks. She’s already sitting in his car, seatbelt on.

“Sorry,” says Simon. “Talking to Mr. Wise about this creative essay we have to do.”

“Well, you could have texted or something,” says Leah. “Buy me a coffee to make up for it?”

Simon smiles at her. “Oh, I can buy you a coffee, can I?” he says. “It’s so nice of you to allow me that honor, Leah!”

“Shut up,” says Leah. “I was in this car for like twenty minutes, and I couldn’t even turn the radio on. Which, by the way, means I definitely get music privileges.”

She plugs her iPhone into the auxiliary cord, and the urgent opening chords of Two-Headed Boy fill the car. 

“Jesus,” says Simon. “Does it get exhausting, being such an archetype? Plus, this is so depressing for after school music.”

“ _Archetype_ ,” says Leah. “Big word.” She sticks her tongue out at him. 

Simon grins and starts the car.

She’s moved on to Rilo Kiley by the time they finally pull up at the takeout window.

“Hand me my wallet?” Simon asks, and leans out the window. “It’s in my bag.”

“Two iced coffees,” he says.

When he turns back to Leah, she’s holding something.

“What’s this?” she asks. “Raymond Carver?”

Simon’s whole body goes hot, all at once. 

“Give me that,” he says. 

“Is this for AP Lit?” Leah asks. “I don’t think we’re reading this in Lang and Comp.”

“Give it to me,” Simon says. He tries to keep his voice normal. “Come on, Leah.”

Leah flips through it. She’s going to see the cover, Simon thinks. He thinks of Bram’s careful handwriting, the way he’d drawn out a real heart, not just the less than three version.

He grabs the book out of her hands.

“What the fuck, Simon,” Leah says. She stares at him. Simon can feel his heart pounding, so loudly he’s convinced she must be able to hear it.

 _All of the good that won't come out of me,_ blares the stereo, relentlessly. 

“I just,” says Simon. “It’s a library book.”

“I can’t even open it because it’s a _library book_?” Leah asks. She’s giving him a really weird look. 

“Two coffees?” says the guy, then repeats it. Simon gives him a twenty, then pulls away.

“Don’t you want your change?” the guy shouts.

“Simon,” says Leah. “Simon, seriously. You’re being so weird. Is something going on?”

“Nothing’s going on,” says Simon. He’s trying to focus on the road.

“Pull over, jesus,” says Leah. “You’re like, shaking. This is not how I want to die.”

Simon pulls over.

“Simon, I’m not stupid,” says Leah. “You’ve been acting _so_ weird lately. You’re always, like, totally out of it at lunch. Like, what the fuck was going on today? You barely heard anything I said. Are you mad at me, or something?”

Simon can’t look at her. 

Leah’s voice gets softer. “I’m sorry if what I said about prom king wasn’t cool,” she says. “I know you don’t like talking about it.”

“It’s fine,” says Simon. “It’s--we can talk about. It’s not that we can’t talk about it.”

“Okay,” says Leah, slowly. “So if you’re not mad, what’s up with the book?”

“Please,” says Simon, softly. He can’t look up from where his hands are on the steering wheel. His knuckles are white. He breathes in and out. “Please don’t ask me that, Leah.”

“Simon,” Leah says. “Si. Look at me.”

He looks at her. She’s--she looks sad. 

“I won’t ask you about it if it matters that much to you,” she says. “You’re sure it’s not something I did?”

“It’s really not,” Simon says. “It’s not about you. Leah, I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

“Okay, Si,” she says. She still looks sad, but she kisses him on the cheek. 

“Just--I thought the good thing was that you didn’t have to do this anymore, you know?”

“I know,” says Simon, miserably. 

“Okay,” Leah says, again. She doesn’t sound very sure about it. 

She leans across the center console and hugs him. Her hair smells the way it always does. Simon breathes out, shakily.

“Come on, crybaby,” Leah says, sitting up. “I have to get home at some point tonight.” 

She turns Jenny Lewis’s voice up again, and Simon takes her home. 

***

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 15 at 7:01 pm  
SUBJECT: Thoughts

Simon,

I just got home from basketball practice. It wasn’t a very good practice, mostly because I was so distracted the whole time. I was the one who had to run sprints--in this case, because I kept forgetting the plays. 

I didn’t hear a word Coach said because I was too busy imagining what could have happened if you hadn’t had to drive Leah home today. Admittedly, a school bathroom isn’t the usual site of my fantasies about you, Simon. In the best ones, we’re in a bed, one that’s a lot bigger than mine, and we have a lot of time. Most importantly, there aren’t mysterious stains on the walls, and the fantasies are definitely lacking a general smell of that cleaning fluid they use on everything at Creekwood.

Still, putting those particularities aside, what happened this afternoon is a lot like the beginning of one of the things I think about a lot. If Leah hadn’t called (if we hadn’t been in a school bathroom), I would have kept kissing while you were leaning back against the wall like that. There’s something about the way you looked, with your head thrown back like that. You looked like art, Simon. You looked like a Classical statue of some beautiful man, the kind I’d try not to let people see me staring at in a museum. 

This is a very long-winded way to say that if we’d had time, and if Leah hadn’t called, and if we hadn’t been in a school bathroom, and if the floor of the bathrooms weren’t always so suspicious--I would have gotten down on my knees for you, right there. If you’d let me. 

Love,  
Bram

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 16 at 12:31 am  
SUBJECT: Re: Thoughts

Simon,

I’m sorry if that last email was too much. I don’t want to put any pressure on you about anything. Maybe we should talk more about what we both want, so that I don’t cross any lines. Are you okay? 

Yours,  
Bram

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 16 at 1:03 am  
SUBJECT: Re: Thoughts

Bram,

It wasn’t too much. I promise. How could that possibly be too much? Nothing is ever _enough_ , with you. I always feel so greedy.

I’m sorry it took me so long to respond. Seriously, again, it’s not that I was upset. At all.

It’s just that I guess I didn’t know what to say about this. Look, please please please please don’t freak out. Leah saw the book you gave me and we had a whole weird thing about it. She didn’t see the inscription, I PROMISE. It was just that I didn’t want her to, and she could tell I was being weird.

I didn’t tell her about us, I promise. I would never do that. But she’s my best friend and I think she can tell that there’s something I’m not telling her. I mean, she can tell. She’s being okay about it. I told her I can’t talk about it. I didn’t even say what it is.

Please please please don’t freak out, Bram. Please. 

Love,  
Simon

P.S. (If you're still reading, I guess.) We can talk about what we both want. I can start: I want that. Exactly what you said. I’ve thought about it, too. A lot. And--me doing that, to you. For you. Sorry, I’m a lot worse at this than you are.

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 16 at 6:45 pm  
SUBJECT: Re: Thoughts

Simon,

First of all, I’m so sorry this email is so late. I fell asleep before I got your email, last night. I wanted to respond but I didn’t have time before school, and then I couldn’t find a time to talk to you at school. I’m so, so sorry if you thought I was ignoring you on purpose. 

Second of all, Simon, I promise I won’t run away from you like that again. Please, if there’s anything you can believe about what’s going on with us, believe that. I might not be ready to come out, still, but I won’t run scared like that again. 

Keeping that promise firmly in mind: yes, if I’m being completely honest, it does freak me out that Leah knows something is going on, even if she has no idea it’s about me. And that feels so selfish, because this particular consequence of my fear (cowardice) is so much harder for you than it is for me. 

But I’m not upset with _you_ about it, Simon. Never that.

I know you deserve more than this. I’d like to try to give you as much of what you deserve as you can. I was thinking, earlier, that maybe we could go on a real date--somewhere in the city, downtown. That is, if you want to. 

Love,  
Bram

P.S. You are the furthest possible thing from bad at this, Simon.

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 16 at 8:22 pm  
SUBJECT: Re: Thoughts

Bram,

Yes, of course I want to go on a real date with you. 

Love,  
Simon

P.S. Stop calling yourself a coward. I’m serious. Never say that again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So from here on out I think the timestamps on the emails may occasionally be more significant, so if the email content is confusing double-check the timestamps.
> 
> This chapter's super-fun bonus content: I couldn't actually work it in but I imagine that the song playing at the end of the narrative part of the chapter is "Hail To Whatever You Found In The Sunlight That Surrounds You."


	12. Chapter 12

Mrs. O’Connor is wearing leather pants again in Bio. Simon turns to catch Leah’s eye about it--she’s always claiming that Mrs. O’Connor is a cougar--but Leah’s already looking at him. She doesn’t look grossed out about the way you can see Mrs. O’Connor’s underwear line. She looks like his mom looks, when he’s sick or something.

It’s been weird like that all week. On the way to school, at lunch, Simon can feel Leah looking at him. He doesn’t think she’s trying to, like, catch him doing something. It’s more like she’s trying to figure out if he’s okay.

Which would be annoying enough on its own--he’s _fine_ \--but the worst part is that it’s always in the back of his mind, now, when he sees Bram at school. 

It’s not that he doesn’t still spend most of English fantasizing about Bram. It’s been even worse than usual, this week, after that stuff Bram said in his email. Simon never thought that school bathrooms would figure so prominently into his jerk-off material; it’s a little bit worrisome. 

When Bram gets called on to read out loud, Simon can’t look away from his mouth, the way it shapes the words so carefully. The generous curve of his bottom lip. 

Since he talked to Leah, though, it’s like there’s a voice in his head telling him not to be so obvious about it all the time. Simon tries to look at Bram’s eyes, instead. Is that less weird? Where do people normally look? Bram’s hands, the way they’re cradling the book so gently? 

It’s impossible.

It’s worse at lunch, because Leah’s actually there. When Bram’s there, too, Simon can barely breathe. Everything he does feels suspicious: talking to Bram, not talking to Bram. Bram can barely look at him, either, it seems like. He sits on the far end of the table and mostly talks to Garrett. At this rate, Leah is going to think that his big secret is that Bram did something terrible to him and now they’re mortal enemies.

Last period on Friday can’t come soon enough. Simon’s been holding on to the promise of a date with Bram, all week. Time with him away from school, where everything feels like a tangled mess of hormonal fantasy and paranoid delusion.

“You look eager,” Ethan says, when Simon sits down. “I know that comparing and contrasting the Mattachine Society with the Gay Liberation Front is interesting, but is it really _thrilling_?”

“Just looking forward to this week being over,” Simon says. It’s been more fun that he thought, working with Ethan. It’s different than hanging out with his other friends, especially lately. It’s like he doesn’t have to worry what Ethan’s thinking, all the time.

“Amen,” says Ethan. “If I see one more ugly-ass Microsoft Paint-produced campaign poster some athlete made after his girlfriend convinced him he had a chance in hell at prom king, I’ll start tearing them down myself.”

“Wow,” says Simon. “That’s actually a very accurate description of how bad those posters are. The whole thing is so ridiculous.”

“I mean don’t get me wrong,” says Ethan. “I’m running for prom king, okay? As a statement. So everyone can see what good poster design looks like. And good hair, of course.”

Ethan’s always saying stuff like that. It used to make Simon cringe. Now it makes him feel better about everything. It’s hard to explain why, or what changed. There’s just something so nice about how _sure_ Ethan always is. 

“Well, you have my vote,” says Simon.

“Thanks, babygay,” Ethan says. 

On his way out of the building, he passes Nick and Abby making out against Abby’s locker. He was going to ask Nick what time basketball practice is supposed to end today, because Bram had said that there was a chance they’d get out early on Friday if they had a good practice Thursday. 

Simon skips it, though. He doesn’t want to interrupt. Nick’s hand is practically all the way up Abby’s shirt. People keep bumping into them in the afterschool rush.

It turns out basketball practice doesn’t end early, anyway, so it’s six by the time Simon walks out to his corner to meet Bram. It’s a warm night, the sky only just beginning to fade. Simon puts his hands in his pocket and skips for a few steps, then throws his arms straight out and balances the rest of the way down the stone edge of the curb, one foot in front of the other. 

Bram’s already waiting there. 

“Nice car,” Simon says, getting in. His heart is racing. He told his mom he was going to a party at Nick’s--they have the whole night ahead of them. 

Bram laughs. “It’s definitely my mom’s,” he says. “Not to ruin my own cred.” 

He leans over and kisses Simon, and Simon’s whole body sings. 

“Okay,” Bram says, pulling back. “So, I heard about this taco place that’s good, if you’re down with that. Or we could do whatever you want, if that doesn’t sound good.”

“Tacos sound amazing,” says Simon. 

The place, when they get there, is tiny and casual, with booths and few sidewalk tables. 

“Is this okay?” Bram asks, worried. “We can go somewhere nicer--” but it smells so good that Simon stops him in his tracks.

They eat baskets of warm tortillas piled high with meat and onions, juices dripping down their hands. Bram licks a trail of sauce off of his wrist and Simon lets himself follow the soft swipe of his tongue with hungry eyes. 

Across the table, Bram sees him looking. His eyes flicker with something and then relax into a warm suggestion, eyebrows lifting. 

“Sorry,” Simon says, feeling hot. 

“You really don’t have to apologize,” Bram says. Under the table, his knee nudges against Simon’s. 

They’re done eating way too soon. 

“We could walk around,” Simon offers, after they pay. It’s not even eight yet, and he doesn’t have to be home until two. Bram grins at him. 

It’s a warm Friday night, and the city streets are busy. Groups of girls with straight blond hair laugh in front of bars, and couples hold hands. 

“Hey,” Bram says. “Want to?” He’s pointing to a bookstore, still open to catch the flow of Friday traffic. Simon nods. 

“This place reminds me of your room,” Simon says. It’s crammed with books, filling mismatched wooden bookcases that seem to sag under their weight. There’s a grungy carpet on the floor and a long-haired cat sleeping in the corner. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” says Bram, laughing. 

“It is,” Simon insists. “Plus,” he adds. “I really like your room.” 

The look Bram gives him makes Simon flush with the knowledge of what they’re both remembering, right now. They’re standing in the back corner of the store, near a shelf labeled “Poetry.”

“Hey,” Simon says, pulling a book down off the shelf. “This looks up your alley.” The title says _Hoops_. “I didn’t know there were poems about basketball.” 

“I think there are poems about everything,” says Bram. He’s fingering the spine of another book, pulls it out and opens it. Simon drinks in the way he concentrates, turning the pages with gentle hands. 

Bram bites his lip, then reads, “From your hips to your feet, I want to make a long journey. I am smaller than an insect.”

He pauses, then gives a small laugh. “Maybe it’s kind of ridiculous,” he says. He goes to put the book back on the shelf, but Simon takes it from him.

“It’s not ridiculous,” he says. He opens it, flips through, reads.

“Here,” Simon says. He clears his throat, lowers his voice.

“When your hands go out,  
love, towards mine,  
what do they bring me flying?  
Why did they stop at my mouth, suddenly,  
why do I recognize them.”

Bram’s quiet. Simon does feel kind of ridiculous, now that it’s him reading poetry out loud in the middle of a bookstore. It was just the stuff about hands, he thinks. It reminded him of Bram. He puts the book back.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” Bram says. Simon looks around. The store’s pretty empty, but there’s a guy at the register, and a woman is browsing the Mystery section. 

Bram looks, too, and then he backs Simon up against the Poetry shelf and kisses him. His mouth is hot, and salty from the tacos. There are books digging into Simon’s spine. Simon touches Bram’s face and kisses him back, tugs at Bram’s lower lip, the one he thought about all week in class. 

The bell over the stop’s door jingles, someone coming in, and they break apart. Bram’s flushed, smiling. 

“I’ll buy this book,” Simon says to the guy at the register, on the way out. 

“So,” Simon says, as they’re eating ice cream, “for my first official date, this has been pretty good.” It’s darker out now, and the street lights are on. It’s a little too cold for ice cream, maybe, but Simon doesn’t really care.

“Same,” says Bram, and smiles at him. Simon wants to devour that smile the same way he’s eating his ice cream, fast and messy and sweet. 

There are more couples out on the street, now. They’ve been walking for a little while and the neighborhood has changed some. There are more bars. It’s louder. The couples have their arms around each other. One guy is kissing a girl up against the side of a building, and someone whistles at them. 

Two guys pass in front of Simon and Bram, and Simon notices them at first because one of the guys looks a little like Bram. He’s slender, and black, and his hair is similar. The other guy is a lot shorter, and white. Simon notices all of that first, and then he notices that they’re holding hands. They stop in front of one of the bars, and the shorter guy says something that makes the guy that looks like Bram laugh, and then bring their hands up where they’re twined together. He kisses the other guy’s fingers, casually, like it’s something he does all the time. They go into the bar. 

Simon’s staring, he knows. Bram can see him looking--Bram must have seen it too. When he looks at Bram, Bram’s quiet. 

Then he says, “Hey, do you want to try to go in there?”

He means the bar those guys just went into.

“I don’t have a fake,” says Simon. “And don’t you have to drive?” 

“Yeah,” says Bram. “I mean--not to drink. I just mean, like, to see it.” He looks down, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. 

“Sorry,” he says, suddenly. “This was a dumb idea. Let’s keep walking.”

“They probably won’t even let us in,” says Simon. 

“Yeah,” Bram says. “Forget about it, I--sorry.”

“No,” Simon says. “Let’s try.” He wants to see those guys again. The way they were with each other. What type of place they went in like that, casually. 

“You sure?” Bram asks, and Simon nods.

Simon’s not exactly sure what’s supposed to happen when you walk into a bar--he always kind of imagined it would be like going through Security at the airport, the way kids talk about fakes--but whatever it is, it doesn’t happen this time. No one even seems to notice them.

It’s dark inside, and there’s a big wall of liquor bottles behind the actual bar part. The rest of the room, which isn’t even that big, is little tall tables and stools. 

Bram catches Simon’s eye, and nods at one of the tables. They sit. It doesn’t look like there are any waitresses or anything, just one guy behind the bar. He’s huge, with tattoos and a beard.

“Is this a gay bar?” Simon whispers to Bram. Bram shrugs. 

“I guess so?” he says. “I mean, it’s all guys.” It’s true. There are only about eight people in there besides them, but they’re all men. There’s the couple from before, and but it’s hard to tell if anyone else is actually together.

“So what do we do now?” Simon asks. 

“I guess I just wanted to see,” Bram says. “I don’t really know.”

“I wanted to see, too,” Simon admits. “Hang on.”

He gathers his courage and goes up to the bar. The bearded guy looks at him.

“Um,” says Simon. “One coke and one beer, please.”

“What kind of beer?” the guy asks. Shit. Simon knows there are different kinds. He’s just not sure what the kinds are. 

“Budweiser?” he asks. The guy looks at him more closely.

“We don’t have Bud,” he says. “How old are you?”

“Twenty one?” Simon says, hopefully. 

Beardo narrows his eyes. 

“Right,” he says. “And I weigh a hundred pounds. Kid, what are you doing in here? I can’t turn a blind eye if you’ve never even had a beer before.”

“We just wanted to see,” Simon says, giving up. He gestures to Bram, in the corner. “I have had a beer before,” he adds, just for dignity’s sake. 

Beardo is looking at Bram, now, and then back to Simon. 

“That your boyfriend?” he asks. Simon doesn’t know how to answer that, but the guy must take his silence as a yes.

“How old are you guys, actually?” Beardo asks.

“Eighteen,” Simon says. It’s mostly true. Beardo sighs, and just then Bram comes up behind Simon.

“Hey, Simon,” he says, worried. “Is everything okay? Should we go?”

Beardo looks at them both again, then shakes his head. 

“You guys can hang out here until ten,” he says. “No later, okay? And cokes only.” He slides two Mexican Cokes across the counter to them. The bottles are cold, dripping with condensation. 

“Do not get me in trouble for this,” Beardo says. 

They drink their cokes sitting at the bar. The room gets fuller and fuller as it gets closer to ten, and it’s clear now that most of the guys here are gay. A couple at the table they were sitting at before leans across to kiss each other. Next to Simon, someone has his hand on the lower back of the guy beside him.

Simon puts a hand on Bram’s thigh, under the bar. Next to him, Bram swallows. He looks around, but all there is is everything Simon’s been looking at, too. 

“Hey,” Bram says. Simon looks at him, and Bram leans over and kisses him, right at the bar, right in front of everyone. It’s quick, and Bram’s eyes are bright in the dim room. 

“Y’all are too cute,” says Beardo. He’s been watching them. Someone tried to buy Bram a drink, and he wouldn’t let them. 

“You’re in high school, right?” he asks. Bram nods. 

“How is that?” Beardo asks. “You in the suburbs? Anyone give you shit, at school?” 

“Not that much,” says Simon, just as Bram says, “I’m not, uh. They don’t know.”

Beardo lets out a long breath. He doesn’t say anything for a little while. Finally he nods at the clock. 

“Time to turn back into a pumpkin, kids,” he says. “Look, you guys get reliable fakes so my ass won’t get arrested, you can come back here anytime you want, okay? Whenever you need.”

He looks at Simon. “Don’t try to order Bud again in my bar, though.”

They stand up to go, and Bram reaches out and grabs Simon’s hand. His hand is a little bit sweaty, and his fingers are tight against Simon’s. Simon wants to lift Bram’s hand up and kiss it, like that guy did. 

Bram holds his hand on the street, too. He holds it until the neighborhood changes back into the one where they’d parked, brighter street lights and more families, clumps of people who look like they’re from out of town. 

Simon flexes his hand when Bram lets go. His fingers were so big, between Simon’s. 

They’re quiet for a little while, in the car, and then Bram says, “Thanks for tonight.”

“Are we doing the thank you thing again?” Simon asks. “Because if I’m not allowed to thank you for hooking up, I don’t think you’re allowed to thank me for the best night ever.”

“Okay,” says Bram. “Deal.” 

Bram fiddles with the radio. 

“Okay,” he says. “Next step in your contemporary hip hop education: Childish Gambino.” 

It’s still too early by the time they get back home, Simon thinks. Bram drives to the corner where he’d picked Simon up. It’s dark out, and the houses here are set way back from the street. The radio is still on, slow lazy music, a high-pitched voice.

“I think I recognize this one,” Simon says. “Get Out?”

Bram laughs. “That was a crazy movie,” he says. “Did you read all the theories people came up with about it?”

“Yeah, Abby sent me this whole website,” Simon says. “It does add a little tinge of creepiness to this song, though.”

“Fair,” says Bram. 

It’s not that creepy, though, Simon thinks. It’s mostly kind of sexy. 

It’s even sexier when he leans over to kiss Bram and Bram sighs against him. 

“Been thinking about this all night,” he murmurs. Simon reaches for the skin that’s always waiting, right there, under Bram’s shirt. He kisses Bram’s neck. Bram undoes his seatbelt, shifts closer to Simon.

“We need a better place to do this,” Bram’s saying. 

“Mmm,” says Simon. He’s distracted by Bram’s ear, the curve of it, the way he shivers when Simon kisses it. 

“Next week.” Bram’s still talking. He shouldn’t be talking, not when his mouth could be doing that thing against Simon’s jaw right now. “After the basketball game. You should come. Then I have a free place.”

“Yeah,” Simon says, vaguely. He reaches for Bram’s hand, finally kisses his fingers. The feeling of them against his lips is really good. Bram’s touching his mouth, looking at him. Simon lets his lips fall open, and Bram slides one long finger between them. Simon runs his tongue over it. He tastes the sharp tang of sweat, salt. 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Bram says. His hands are on Simon’s face, framing it, and he runs his thumb over Simon’s lower lip. Simon opens for it again, takes it in. 

He only had cokes, tonight. So why does he feel so drunk?

“I don’t know if I can wait until Friday,” Bram says. “God. Simon.”

They’re kissing again, lips bruising, teeth scraping. Bram’s hands are still on Simon’s face, clinging. Simon could burst, he thinks. He could die. 

The music swells lazily around them. 

_Now don't you close your eyes_

Simon’s hand is on Bram’s dick almost without him realizing it. He hesitates just long enough to see Bram’s jerky nod in the dark, and then he’s touching him, the hot thick length of him. He didn’t know it would feel this good from this side. To be the one touching. 

Bram’s fingers slide back into his mouth, two this time, and Simon sucks at them. He feels out of control, like his body barely even exists. All that exists is Bram’s body, and how much of it he can have. He tastes Bram’s fingers and touches Bram’s dick and Bram groans out loud. His whole body is shaking. Simon sucks harder and moves his hand faster and loves it, he loves it, and then he can feel the hot wet heat of Bram, all over his hand. 

Bram’s breathing hard, skin shining with sweat in the dim light. Simon lifts his wet hand, looks for somewhere to wipe it off. The shine of it catches his eye, though, and he feels--drunk, bodiless, curious. He sticks a finger in his mouth, tastes it. It’s not so bad. Kind of salty.

Bram makes a noise like someone punched him in the stomach. 

“Simon,” he says, like a plea. 

Simon’s so hard that it hurts, where his dick is trapped in his jeans. 

Bram reaches towards Simon’s jeans, but his arms are still shaking. 

“It’s okay,” Simon says. He’ll just jerk off, like, the instant he gets home. It’s good just to look at Bram like this.

But Bram's got himself together enough, now. He fights with Simon's button. Simon helps him, undoes his zipper. He closes his hand around the base of his dick, hard, trying to relieve some of the pressure.

"God," says Bram. "That's--" he trails off, lets his hands fall away.

Simon's hand is still wet, and he’s so hard. When he starts to move his hand he almost doubles over with the feeling of it. Bram’s watching him, and it only takes about five seconds. He comes all over his hand, trying not to get it on Bram’s mom’s car. 

Bram takes his wet hand, looks at it. He kisses the skin where Simon’s thumb meets his palm, the little V there. Simon can feel Bram’s tongue against him, cleaning him up in that one little spot. 

“Not so bad,” says Bram, and Simon finally laughs, the tension of the moment breaking over them in a burst. 

“That’s what I thought, too,” Simon says. 

“Good to know,” Bram says. “For future reference.” The air gets a little thicker. 

“Sorry about your mom’s car,” Simon says. 

“I’ll get some air freshener,” says Bram. “I think the seats are okay.”

“I wish I didn’t have to go,” says Simon. 

“Me too, Simon,” says Bram. 

***

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 20 at 2:47 am  
SUBJECT: Your Hands

Bram,

That’s the name of the poem in that book I got. It turns out it’s mostly extremely straight poetry. Lots of breasts. But that one poem is still really good. 

You always woo me with poetry. I hope it’s not too ridiculous to try my hand (hah) at it too. 

Anyways, at the end of that poem it says, “all the years of my life/I walked around looking for them.”

Tonight kind of felt like a dream. Like I found something I’ve been looking for. I don’t know if that makes sense. But I can’t stop thinking it.

Love,  
Simon

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 20 at 3:07 am  
SUBJECT: Re: Your Hands

It makes sense, Simon. I know we were only in Atlanta. But it felt like we were in a different world. 

Love,  
Bram

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for blatantly stealing the gay bar idea from SVTHSA. I guess I'm stealing, like, the characters too, though, so why not a plot point?


	13. Chapter 13

It’s hot in school on Wednesday. The heaters are broken in some way that makes it impossible to turn them off. There was an announcement about it, but everyone was too hot to listen. Mr. Worth walks around fanning himself with a paper fan, even though he still won’t take his suit jacket off.

It’s even worse when Simon gets to History. It probably doesn’t help that the classroom is on the third floor of the school; all the heat has risen into it, or something.

“Ugh,” Simon says to Ethan. It’s almost the end of the day, and it’s only gotten more unbearable. “This is disgusting.”

He already took off his hoodie a while ago. There’s nothing left to remove. Simon pulls desperately at the neckline of his t-shirt, trying to get some more air on his skin. Maybe if he wore more v-necks, Simon thinks. Maybe that’s one of the benefits.

“Honestly, if they don’t fix it, I’m going to call the ACLU,” Ethan is saying. “I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again.”

He stops, suddenly.

“Hold up,” he says. He’s looking at Simon where the neck of his shirt is all sweaty and stretched out now.

Simon looks down. An angry red spot looks back at him, in exactly the spot where Bram’s mouth had been sucking at his collar, three hours ago.

“Shit,” Simon says out loud. He claps a hand over his skin.

_Shit._

It's not like Simon doesn't know that it was stupid, and reckless, even without this _evidence_.

The problem is just that it’s been worse and worse since Atlanta. He can’t even glance over at Bram without feeling sure that everyone can see exactly what he’s thinking. The things he’s picturing. How can people not know how he feels, when it seems like it’s soaking out of his pores?

It was okay, on Monday. He was so happy to see Bram that it felt good just to be in the same room as him, to remember what it had been like to walk down the street holding his hand.

But since then all Simon’s been able to think about is the things he _can’t_ do, or be, with Bram. At school.

Forget about holding hands--he can’t talk to Bram at lunch, and he can’t look at him in class. They barely _speak_ at school, and it’s awful. It makes Simon feel like he’s just made of need, and not just in the good, sexy way. It’s half lust and half desperation for Bram to turn to him, to remind him that he exists.

That sounds crazy, but--sometimes at school it’s like he’s disappearing, when Bram is there and he has to pretend nothing’s happening. It’s like he has to become invisible just to get through it.

So when he’d bumped into Bram on the way out the door after second period, Simon just--he couldn’t take it anymore. The brush of Bram’s shoulder against his felt like being burned, like the time he’d grabbed a tray for Nora without thinking about it and his hand had gone icy cold and then burning hot, a lingering pain.

It wasn’t even a bad thing. He just wanted more of it. The _feeling_.

Bram had stopped still, too, and they’d looked at each other. Bram bit his lip and looked around. He leaned into Simon’s shoulder, so that they were still touching.

“Simon,” Bram said, and his voice was tight, all wound up. It was how Simon felt inside.

“We need to--just follow me,” Simon said, and Bram nodded.

Simon still knew where Ms. Albright had hidden the key to the props closet in the basement when she got tired of having to hand it out to every kid who asked. It was right there, on top of the doorway. He and Bram fell into the tiny, crowded room, tripping over an armchair and a basket of plastic flowers.

“Hang on,” Simon said, and pushed a chair up under the doorknob.

“I told you Friday was too long to wait,” Bram said, when they were locked in. He looked at Simon, just looked at him up and down with this half-smile on his face.

Keep looking at me, Simon wanted to say.

Instead he said, “I can’t even _look_ at you--in class--” helplessly, and then Bram started to kiss him.

“I don’t know what to do,” he tried to say, but Bram’s mouth was already on his neck, and then he couldn’t be coherent anymore.

They broke two fake lamp posts and one real coat stand, and it was so hot the whole time: the feeling of Bram, after so long. And the broken heaters. Simon mouthed at Bram’s thumb, bit down to hold in his noises as Bram licked the pooling sweat from his neck, sucked at the droplets gathering in his collarbone.

_Shit._

Ethan’s eyes are wide, and his mouth is open in a small “o.”

“It’s not what you think,” Simon says. It’s gotten even hotter, which should be impossible. He can feel beads of sweat dripping down his arms, out past his short sleeves. His elbows are wet where they’re sitting on his desk. “I burned myself.”

“Right,” Ethan says. “With a curling iron, I’m sure.”

“Don’t make this a big deal,” Simon says. He can feel his heart pounding. A drop of sweat trickles into his eye, and he blinks hard. It stings. He looks past Ethan, at the door.

“Why didn’t tell me you were,” Ethan gestures at his neck, “ _whatever_ that indicates—with someone?”

“I’m not,” Simon says, automatically. School’s over, and the room is empty. Simon didn’t even hear the bell ring.

“I’m not an idiot,” Ethan says. “Let’s review the things I already know, for sure. One: you’re gay. Two: you were heavily _necking_ with someone, recently. That ish is still red, it’s not all bruised and gross. Three: if it were some kid from a different school, you would tell me. If it were a college boy, you would definitely tell me. Ergo, four: that is the result of you and some boy from _this_ school, and honey, I know it wasn’t me.”

“He’s not--” Simon starts, desperately. He doesn’t know how to get out of this one. Ethan’s still looking at him closely, arms crossed.

“Ethan,” he says, finally. “You can’t, please. I can’t talk about it.”

Ethan’s eyes go narrow.

“Is it one of those assholes?” he asks. “It’s such a ridiculous cliche. Please tell me it’s not them, at least.”

“No,” Simon says. He can hear himself pleading, god. It’s pathetic. “Ethan, come on. You get that I can’t talk about it, right?”

He thinks Ethan gets it, at least. It occurs to Simon, for the first time, that maybe Ethan didn’t love having to carry the burden of being the only gay kid for so many years. That maybe he noticed all the times Simon didn’t say anything when people were picking on him. That maybe Ethan isn’t as sympathetic to whoever’s still hiding at Creekwood as Simon’s been assuming.

But Ethan sighs, and his eyes soften.

“Of course I don’t want you to _out_ your boy toy,” he says. “Especially after what happened to you.”

“Yeah,” Simon says. He wipes at his forehead with the hem of his shirt.

Ethan looks at him carefully.

“Is this a good idea, Simon?” he asks. “I mean, anyone could have noticed your neck. You seem really freaked out.”

Simon doesn’t know what to say. He shrugs.

Ethan’s quiet for a long time. Simon should go, he thinks. He should get to theater club. He was already so late for Bio that his parents are going to get a call about it.

“This seems like a historically bad idea,” Ethan says, finally. “I know you don’t want my advice, probably. But all I know is if I had a boyfriend, I’d want him to be proud of me.”

“It’s not like that,” Simon says, but Ethan’s giving him a pitying look.

“What is it like, Simon?” Ethan asks. “Does he walk with you to your locker every morning? Does he buy you popcorn at the football games? Is he going to take you to _prom_?” He pauses. “Wearing his invisibility cloak?”

Simon twists the hem of his shirt around and around in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Ethan says, immediately. He looks tired. “That was really bitchy of me. It was over the line.”

“It’s okay,” says Simon, even though it isn’t really. He just wants to go home.

Then Ethan’s face changes, again.

“Just tell me one thing,” Ethan says. He’s more hesitant, suddenly, than Simon’s ever heard him before. He sounds almost shy. He looks down at the desk, then back up at Simon.

“Is it good?” Ethan asks.

Simon knows what he’s asking about.

“Yeah,” he says, looking at Ethan. He wishes he could tell Ethan more, tell him why it’s so good. He wants to--brag. About Bram.

“It’s--it’s really, really good,” he says, instead.

Ethan nods at him, his mouth twisting up into a small smile.

“I guess I can’t blame you, then,” he says.

***

_FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com_  
_TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com_  
_DATE: Feb 24 at 11:17 pm_  
_SUBJECT: Please don’t freak out_

_Bram, I know you promised you wouldn’t run away, so I have to tell you something. I guess it’s redundant to say “please don’t freak out” again._

_Ethan found out that I’m dating someone at school. He doesn’t know it’s you. He doesn’t_

_THIS MESSAGE WAS SAVED AS A DRAFT AT 11:17 PM_

_FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com_  
_TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com_  
_DATE: Feb 24 at 11:23 pm_  
_SUBJECT: School_

_Bram,_

_Every day at school when I look at you I feel like I’m going crazy. Do you ever feel like you don’t know who you are when_

_I really hate it when you sit with us at lunch sometimes just because that makes it even harder to_

_THIS MESSAGE WAS SAVED AS A DRAFT AT 11:23 PM_

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 25 at 1:08 am  
SUBJECT: Friday

Bram,

I can’t wait to see you on Friday. Sorry for such a short email. I’ve just been thinking about it a lot.

Love,  
Simon

P.S. By “it,” I mean “you.”

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: Feb 25 at 9:48 pm  
SUBJECT: Re: Friday

Simon,

I can’t wait to see you tomorrow, either. It’s really hard to be near you, in school, and not be able to touch you whenever I want. (Whenever I want, of course, is all the time). Do you ever feel like everyone can just tell? Maybe that’s just a fear I’m projecting onto you.

I’m excited that you’re coming to the game first, too. I don’t know if it’s pathetic that the thought of you in the stands watching me makes me so happy, but it does.

Just make sure you sit next to someone who can explain the rules to you, Simon. :)

Love,  
Bram

P.S. I don’t mean that you’re doing anything at school that would give it away to people; you’ve been amazing. I’m worried that I’ll do that, somehow, because whenever I think about you it feels like I’m shouting, and it’s a miracle that no one has heard me yet.


	14. Chapter 14

“So that’s the basket,” Abby says. “The goal is to get the ball through the hoop, see?”

Simon rolls his eyes at her. “I’m not a moron,” he says. 

“Well, you said you wanted to learn about basketball, so I was just starting with the basics.”

“Ugh,” says Simon. “No, I mean, like--”

Everyone around him starts cheering.

“--Like, why are we happy now?” he finishes.

“Because we stole the ball and then Garrett dunked it?” Abby says. “You kind of are a moron. Why are you so interested in basketball all of a sudden, anyway?”

Simon shrugs.

Abby gets that look on her face that Simon’s starting to hate. The one where she’s about to--

“Is it because of the _guys_?” Abby asks. “We totally don’t talk about this enough. I don’t even know, like, who you’re _into_.”

“Uh,” Simon says.

“Okay,” Abby says, excited. “If you had to pick one guy on the team, right now. Who would you choose?”

“I’m not really into any of them,” Simon tries. “Jocks aren’t really my thing.”

It’s hard to make it sound convincing when he’s spent the last forty five minutes staring at the way the muscles on Bram’s arms and shoulders stand out when he shoots the ball. How quick he is, the shine of sweat on the back of his neck. The glow of satisfaction on his face after he makes a shot, and the eagerness in his eyes as he tracks the ball. 

“If you had to, though,” Abby says. “The hypothetical is what makes it fun.”

“Is this fun?” Simon asks.

“Simon,” Abby groans. “Come on.”

She’s just not going to drop it. Abby is great, most of the time. Simon kind of hates her right now, though.

“I don’t know,” he says, trying to look for the least incriminating kid of the team. He points to a pale, sweating sophomore with red hair. He’s about a head shorter than anyone else sitting with him on the bench.

“That kid,” he says.

“Seriously?” Abby says. “To each his own, I guess.” 

She goes back to explaining the game. 

“Okay, so, see? There’s like a minute left, and we’re down two--Simon, come on, this is really exciting, you have to _watch_.”

The thing is that Simon wants, so badly, to tell her. He wants to tell everyone in the gym. He wants to shout, “See _that_ guy? The hot one, who isn’t on the bench? The quick, laughing one? He’s mine.” 

He wants to say, “I know what it’s like to feel his hands on my skin. I know what he tastes like. I know what makes him come.”

Everyone around Simon erupts in cheers again. 

“Nick!” Abby’s shouting. “I love you! Way to go!” She drums her hands on her thighs, leaning forward. 

Bram has the ball now. He’s moving with it, sailing, and then he stops on a dime and lifts it in his hands and he’s frozen there for one long moment, a living replica of the golden men on the trophies in his room. And then he lets go, and the ball flies through the basket without touching the rim, an echoing _swoosh_. 

Everyone screams, a third and loudest time.

“Oh my god!” Abby screams with them, right into Simon’s ear. She’s jumping up and down. “We _won_! Holy shit, Simon, did you see that? _Bram!_ That was amazing!”

“BUZZER BEATER!” shouts the kid to Simon’s left. “BUZZER BEATER BRAM!”

“GREEN-FELD!” someone starts chanting, and then the whole gym is echoing with it.

_GREEN-FELD! GREEN-FELD! GREEN-FELD!_

Abby’s pushing through the crowds of kids in the stands, making her way down to the court. Simon watches her throw herself into Nick’s arms, the way he holds her up, her legs around him, and kisses her like it’s the end of a movie.

 _ALL I DO IS WIN! WIN! WIN! NO MATTER WHAT!_ shrieks the PA system. 

He tries to catch Bram’s eye, but he’s surrounded by his teammates, a huge heaving pile of them. 

Simon makes his way slowly through clumps of still-celebrating bodies, trying to get to the exit. He’ll just wait for Bram in the hallway, or something. 

He leans against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. This might take a while. Maybe he should just wait for Bram outside, or something. They didn’t even talk about where they’d meet up, how they’d make sure no one saw them.

 _EVERYBODY HANDS GO UP!_ T-Pain insists, faintly, from inside the gym. There’s more general shrieking.

Simon looks at his phone. It’s nine-thirty. He texts Leah, _the frenzy of winning a sports thing is somehow way worse when it’s in an enclosed room_. The he plugs in his headphones and opens up Spotify and tries to drown out DJ Khaled and the rest of the gym’s screaming humanity.

Four and a half songs later, he’s tapping his foot idly to the beat and mouthing along with the lyrics when he feels a hand on his elbow.

Simon turns. It’s Bram, bright-eyed and flushed and still shining with sweat.

 _All this could be yours, if the price is right,_ John Darnielle continues, unaware, and Simon rips out his earbuds. 

“Hey,” he says. He tries to smile. He’s not sure how to be email Simon instead of school Simon, around this particular Bram.

“So I take it you’re the hero?” 

Bram grins, shrugs. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he says. He looks up and down the hallway, then leans closer to Simon.

“Thanks for coming,” he says. “It was really cool, knowing you were there watching.”

“It was really cool, watching you play,” Simon says. He’s being honest. It was beautiful. But he doesn’t know how to say that out loud. 

“I even think I learned most of the rules,” he says instead, and Bram laughs. 

“We’ll get you there,” he says. He looks around again, then tugs Simon around the corner. 

“I just have to change, and then we can go,” he says. They’re in front of a set of double doors, the boys’ locker room.

“I’ll wait here,” Simon says, but Bram looks around again.

“Just come,” he says, finally. “They’re all still in the gym anyway.”

“This is not a good idea,” Simon says, but he follows Bram anyway. He sits down on the bench while Bram unlocks a locker, strips off his jersey. In the dim light, shadows play over the planes and muscles of his back. Simon wants to reach out and touch. He sits on his hands.

“Hey,” Bram says, and looks at him. “God, I just want--”

He tugs Simon up off the bench, and presses him back against the row of lockers. His eyes are still so bright. Simon thinks about the way Nick had grabbed Abby, kissed her like she was his prize.

Bram leans in and Simon shouldn’t let this happen. It’s like Bram’s drunk, or something. He can’t possibly be thinking clearly. But Simon wants--Simon wants to be his reward. So he lets Bram press him back and kiss him, and he can feel his pulse pounding in his fingertips as he touches Bram’s back, his arms, his stomach.

“I can’t wait,” Bram is saying. He’s kissing Simon’s neck, and his hand is in Simon’s hair. Simon’s breathing so fast. He can feel the hard line of Bram’s dick against his thigh. Bram leaves drying trails of sweat against his skin where his face presses, where his hands touch. 

“Bram,” Simon tries to say. “Bram, come on, we can’t--”

It’s so good, though. He wants to, so badly. 

“I know,” Bram is saying, but his mouth is still on Simon’s neck. Simon shivers and bites down on his bottom lip. Bram’s hands are sliding down, now. They’re on Simon’s waist, at his hips. One hand goes lower, runs over the curve of Simon’s ass. Simon’s whole consciousness narrows to that point of contact. He can’t think.

“Okay,” Bram’s saying. “Okay, hang on, okay.” He pulls off of Simon’s neck, looks at him. His eyes are so wide.

“GREENFELD!” someone shouts, from behind the row of lockers.

Bram jumps back from Simon like he’s been burned. 

“GREENFELD! Where the fuck did you go, man?” There’s another voice, the clatter of bodies moving recklessly through a space. 

Bram’s back at his locker now, struggling with his shirt. His back is to Simon. 

Simon’s frozen. He can feel the metal of the lockers against his back, cold and unyielding. 

A mass of boys wearing basketball uniforms appears at the end of the row of lockers. 

“There you are, man,” says Garrett. “Dude, you can’t just disappear like that! We’re all heading to Chance’s to celebrate.”

“Free crib!” shouts Chance, and everyone else shouts, “FREE CRIB!”

There’s an open locker next to Simon. For an absurdly long moment, Simon thinks about sneaking into it. He could fit, maybe. 

Too late. “Spier!” says Garrett. “What are you doing here, man?”

“I, uh,” Simon says. 

Bram’s still turned away. 

“Probably just wanted to check us out while we changed,” says a voice from the back of the clump. Someone sniggers.

“The _fuck_ , Forrester,” Garrett says, just as Bram wheels around. He’s shaking. 

“What did you say.” It sounds like Bram is biting out the words. It doesn’t sound like a question. 

The moment stretches and stretches, and all Simon can think about, somehow, is Martin Addison.

He’d almost been ready. Sometimes Simon thinks that’s the worst part of the whole thing. He’d told Abby, and it had been okay. It had been _good_. He was going to tell his parents, and Nick, and Leah. He’d been figuring it out. 

And then Martin had put that post up.

And Simon dealt with it. He fucking made the best of it. But it was not the way it was supposed to be.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever really be over it, not for the rest of his life.

Bram’s still shaking. He opens his mouth again. And Simon thinks about how there are only two things that can happen next, and either one of them feels like the end of the world. 

He can’t be the reason Bram doesn’t have a choice. 

But the thing that’s even worse is that he can’t--he can’t be here if Bram doesn’t choose, right now.

Simon can feel everyone looking at him, what they’re thinking. It’s like he’s pinned to the lockers, a specimen with his wings stretched out and trembling. 

He wants Bram to tell everyone. He doesn’t want to be _defended_ , he wants to not have to be here alone. 

He’s really, really tired of being here alone. 

He feels sick. He feels like Martin. What the fuck is wrong with him, that he can want that from Bram? Like this?

So he makes himself speak, before Bram can.

“Yeah,” he says. “I was trying to see my first dick, because I still haven’t figured out how to watch porn for free. Any tips, Forrester?”

He grabs his bag and walks away.

“Simon,” says Bram, behind him. “Please, wait--”

Simon doesn’t turn around. He puts his headphones back in, turns the music up.

Over the music, it’s impossible to hear if there are footsteps behind him. Simon makes it all the way out of the school and to the parking lot. He gets to his car and it’s like it all hits him right then, the adrenaline draining away and leaving him with nothing. He lets himself lean against the cool metal of the car, its supportive solidity, and breathes.

There’s a hand on his shoulder.

“Simon,” Bram says. Simon can hear him breathing hard. “Are you okay?”

Simon doesn’t look up.

“Simon,” Bram says again. “Please. Look at me.”

He turns, finally. Bram’s right there. He’s so close. 

“I’m sorry,” Bram is saying. “I’m sorry that happened, I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, I’m--”

His whole body slumps, and he doesn’t look at Simon.

“I should have,” Bram says.

Simon’s between Bram and his car. There’s nowhere to go. 

“I’m not asking you to!” Simon says. He doesn’t know how to explain this. He doesn’t know anything except that everything is going wrong.

“I’m not asking you to,” Simon says again. “That’s the last thing I would--Bram. I can’t.” 

As the words leave his mouth he realizes that they’re true. 

“I thought I could. I wanted to. I want--I want to. But I _can’t_ , anymore.”

“Please,” Bram says, just once. The word sounds broken, like it shattered as it came out of him.

Simon wants to say _please_ , too. He wants to beg Bram, to yell at him. He wants--he wants to be able to give Bram this. Everything. Anything.

He can’t, though. 

He can still see Bram, standing there in the moonlight, as he drives away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to N, who helped with this chapter, and who introduced me to the Mountain Goats.


	15. Chapter 15

Simon wakes up with a pounding headache and a hollow pit gnawing at his stomach. He wonders for a split second if he got drunk last night. Then he remembers.

He barely leaves his room the whole weekend. He does his Bio homework and his Calc homework and he opens his English assignment. It’s the beginning of their poetry unit. He pushes his laptop away and gets back in bed, pulls the covers up over his head.

Nick texts him at some point, _hey, Garrett told me about what happened last night. U okay? Want to talk?_

 _It’s fine,_ Simon texts back. _It wasn’t a big deal._

There are no new notifications on his Gmail app. He buries the phone under his pillow. 

On Sunday, Nora opens the door to his room a tiny crack. 

“Simon?” she says. “Do you want some pancakes?”

“No, thank you,” Simon says. He doesn’t look at her.

There’s a pause, and then the door creaks open wider. He can hear footsteps approaching the bed.

“Are you okay?” Nora asks. She touches his shoulder really lightly. “I can make you something else, if you want. I can make you a smoothie, or an omelette, or if you just want cereal--”

Simon feels his throat getting thick. He hasn’t cried, not once. He wasn’t going to cry. 

“I’m not hungry,” he tries to say, but his face is wet. 

“Simon,” Nora says, in a small voice. He finally looks at her. She looks scared.

“You’re crying,” she says.

“Yeah,” Simon says. “It’s not cause of the pancakes, though.”

“I know,” Nora says. “My pancakes are really good.” 

Simon makes a noise that might be a laugh, even though he’s still crying.

“Can I give you a hug?” Nora asks. Simon hates that she sounds like she’s afraid he’ll say no. 

He nods. She climbs up into his bed and hugs him, burying her face in his chest. 

“You’re being really weird lately,” she says, into his t-shirt. “But I still love you.”

“So what kind of pancakes are these, anyway?” Simon asks into the top of her head.

The rest of the day is a little better after that.

On Monday, though, Simon thinks about pretending to be sick. He wouldn’t even have to pretend that hard. His stomach still hurts. He thinks about telling his mom that he’s being bullied and he can never go back to school. A kernel of truth there, too, if he lets himself acknowledge it. 

He thinks about this kid he knew who was a senior last year who got the school to let him graduate early so he could hike the Appalachian Trail before he started college. He came back halfway through the summer, twenty five pounds lighter and with a scraggly beard. It doesn’t seem so bad. How hard could it be?

But he goes, even though walking into English feels like one of those nightmares where you realize you're naked at school. He feels like every part of him is exposed, flayed open. 

Bram’s there, at his desk. Simon doesn’t let himself think anything else. It’s just a fact. Mr. Wise is wearing a plaid vest and talking about Robert Frost. Taylor Metternich got a haircut. Lauren Lake is texting and chewing gum. Bram is sitting at his desk.

He takes meticulous notes on everything Mr. Wise says, focusing on the way his pencil forms small indentations in the paper as he presses it down.

_Frost, nature, poetry of seasons_  
_Cycles, the cruelty of the natural order of things_  
_Live vs death, constant balancing_  
_Frost’s understanding of natural cycles is not the same as acceptance, insists on the contrasts between humans and the natural world: see “Reluctance”_

Bram and Garrett don’t sit with them at lunch. Simon doesn’t think about it. He won’t.

On Wednesday, Nick says, “So Dave Forrester got suspended.” He looks at Simon. 

“For what?” Leah asks.

“Safe space policy,” says Nick. “I don’t know the details.”

He looks at Simon again. Simon shrugs.

Leah looks from Simon to Nick, then back to Simon. Simon looks away. Bram’s sitting two tables down, with Garrett and some other kids from the basketball team. Or the soccer team. They’re all the same, anyway, for the most part.

Simon watches Bram peel his orange. He tears the peel into little pieces that rain down all over his tray. He doesn’t eat the orange.

“Look,” Leah says in the car, a few days later. “I know you said you didn’t want to talk, or that you couldn’t talk, or whatever. I’m trying to put aside all of my instincts and respect that.”

“I’m sorry,” Simon starts to say. “I just--”

“Shut up for half a second,” says Leah. “I’m _trying_ not to feel, like, hurt that you aren’t talking to me. Honestly, I think I’m doing a pretty good job. This is coming out terribly, actually. What I meant to say was that if you need to talk to me you can.”

She sighs and rolls down the window, then rolls it back up. Flick, flick, flick.

“Leave it alone,” Simon says.

“The window?” Leah asks. “Simon, look, whatever. I can keep a secret, though. I’m supposed to be your _best friend_.”

She pauses.

“I guess I just miss you,” she says, finally.

Simon catches her eye in the rearview mirror. He can see himself trying to smile, the sad twist of it.

“Me too,” he says.

He and Ethan present their project in class on Friday. Simon’s voice shakes, a little bit. Ethan’s is cool and steady.

At the end of the oral presentation, Mr. Rosen clears his throat.

“Well,” he says. “On one hand, the assignment was to present about the _global_ history of minority rights movements, and you two have focused somewhat exclusively on the progression of the gay rights movement in this country.”

Someone giggles, and Mr. Rosen wheels on them. “Detention, Maggie,” he says. “And no, I don’t care if you have to miss glee club.

He turns back to Simon and Ethan.

“That said, this project was incredibly thorough and, as Maggie has just helpfully proved for us, timely. So despite a little bit of mission drift, so to speak, I have to thank you boys for taking this on. I’m very glad you did.”

They get an A minus.

That night after dinner, Simon knocks on the door of his mom’s study.

“Can I talk to you?” he asks, and her face does the thing where she’s trying not to scare him off with how much she loves him.

Simon sits down on the floor and leans against the foot of the big armchair she keeps in here. He wraps his arms around his knees and tightens them, twists his fingers together.

“What if you really want to talk to someone about something, but you can’t do it without telling someone else’s secret?” he asks. “Sorry. I don’t know if that makes any sense.”

“Sweetheart,” says his mom. “Honey.”

He doesn’t look at her.

“Can you just tell me?” he asks.

She pauses. “I think first I’d need to know what kind of secret it is,” she says. “If you don’t talk about it, will someone get hurt?”

“No,” Simon says. “It’s not like that.”

“If you do talk about it, will someone get hurt?”

“I think,” Simon says. “I guess that’s the problem.”

“Can you talk about it without hurting that person?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” Simon says. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I think it’s always good to talk about the things you need to figure out,” she says. “After all, that’s pretty much my entire profession. When people talk to me, they know everything they say is completely confidential. I know you don’t always have that luxury in the real world, particularly in high school.”

She sighs.

“Honey, I know you said it won’t hurt anyone if you don’t talk about it. But it seems like it might be hurting you. Is that fair?”

“I don’t know,” Simon says, again. He looks at the rug.

“I think if it were me,” his mom says, “I’d find a way to talk about the things I needed to talk about to feel better. And if I could do that without hurting someone else or giving away the parts of it that were their secret, I’d do that. But look, Simon, sweetheart. The things that happen to you belong to _you_ , too. You have a right to feel the way you feel about them. And you have a right to share things, and feelings, that belong to you with the people you love.”

“Okay,” Simon says, in a small voice.

“I love you,” his mom says. “I’m incredibly proud of you. Do I tell you that enough?”

“Yeah,” Simon says. “Yeah, mom. You do.”

“Hey,” he says to Leah in the car the next morning, before they pick up Nick and Abby. “Want to sleep over on Friday?”

“Duh,” she says, but then she leans over and kisses him on the forehead. There’s a bright red circle where her lipstick stuck to his skin, and Simon leaves it there until they get to school.

Bram and Garrett still don’t sit with them, that week. Simon tries not to notice it. You chose this, he tells himself.

He lets himself look at Bram twice per English class, keeping a tally in his notebook so he doesn’t go over. _Psycho_ , he thinks, and tears the page out.

Bram never looks at him.

After school, Simon goes to rehearsal every day and then he goes home every day and gets in bed and doesn’t do his homework.

He watches Netflix, instead. Sometimes he lets Nora watch with him.

On Thursday, she makes him watch that show about the gay guys who fix people, even though he’d rather watch David Chang make pizzas or something else that doesn’t make him think about anything.

But he’s trying to be nicer to Nora.

It’s not even so bad. The one with the long hair reminds him of Ethan, a little bit, an Ethan that gets to be soft in all the places that the real Ethan has to be hard.

“Do you think they could convince you to stop wearing hoodies all the time?” Nora asks, and giggles.

He makes her leave halfway through the fourth episode, though, as soon as the black guy from Atlanta starts talking about coming out.

“Why?” Nora asks.

“I have to do my homework,” Simon says, and then watches the rest of the episode without her, in two-minute chunks. He keeps shutting his computer and then opening it again, and when the guy starts crying Simon can’t do it anymore.

He does his English homework, instead.

Friday night, in the dark of his room, he leans his head back off the side of his bed and looks at Leah upside down.

“Is this the part where you tell me why you have a Spotify playlist that’s just Old College Try and half of _Carrie and Lowell_?” she asks. “You know you made that public, right?”

“Yeah,” Simon says. “Yeah, it is.”

He doesn’t tell her who it is. Who it was. But he tells her the rest of it. Blue, the emails, what it was like at school. The sex.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Leah says, when he’s done, but Simon already knew that.

“I won’t even try to figure out who it is,” Leah says. “But Simon, you know I’m not exactly as sympathetic to him as you are, right? He should probably have figured his shit out before he dragged you into it.”

“Maybe,” Simon says, “but I can’t—it’s not like that. I’m not mad at him.”

“It might help if you were a little bit mad at him,” Leah says.

“Yeah,” Simon says. “I know.” 

But on Monday, Bram’s already in his seat when Simon gets to class. There are still five minutes before the bell, and Bram’s reading.

It’s _Lunch Poems_. And Simon’s whole heart turns over, inside his chest.

***

_FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com_  
_TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com_  
_DATE: March 1 at 9:53 pm_  
_SUBJECT: Reluctance_

_Bram,_

_Did you read the poem Mr. Wise talked about today in class? I just read it and I_

_THIS MESSAGE WAS SAVED AS A DRAFT AT 9:53 PM_

_FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com_  
_TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com_  
_DATE: March 3 at 11:55 pm_  
_SUBJECT: Oranges_

_Bram,_

_You don’t have to sit a different table at lunch if you don’t want to. I assume you don’t want to. I guess that makes sense. I should have known we couldn’t just go back to what things were like, before. When we were friends. Sort of friends._

_I always knew that but I really knew it today at lunch when I watched you eating your orange. Or not eating it, I guess. I know this sounds creepy. I try not to look at you. But it’s like you’re the north pole and my eyes are a magnet._

_Anyway, I watched you peel your orange and all I could think about were your fingers, and how I remember exactly what they feel like when you touch me. How they feel on my lips. I told you once that I didn’t know anything could be like that. The thing is that it never stopped being true. Everything we did was like discovering something._

_Who knew that I’d want to kiss your hands? That I’d want your fingers in my mouth? Even writing it out, it looks crazy._

_Do you ever think about_

_THIS MESSAGE WAS SAVED AS A DRAFT AT 11:55 PM_

_FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com_  
_TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com_  
_DATE: March 11 at 9:37 pm_  
_SUBJECT: We should have talked about_

_Bram,_

_I was watching this show today and I realized for the first time that we never talked about you coming out to your mom. I mean, after we were Bram and Simon. I guess I just never knew how to talk about the email stuff with you in person. I think maybe I didn’t want you to feel like I was bringing up coming out because I wanted you to come out to more people. I think also whenever I was around you I couldn’t really think clearly._

_Anyway, how are things going with your mom? Are they okay? And what about your dad?_

_Also, maybe this is weird to talk about, but I guess I was talking to Ethan in class today (I’m friends with him now, sort of. Another thing we didn’t talk about. I think I was nervous about it. I don’t know. Ethan used to make me feel weird.) Anyway, I was talking to him and I realized for the first time (I should have realized before) that it might be different for you to be gay, because you’re also black. Than it is for me, I mean. Is it? I feel weird that we never even talked about it._

_Sorry if this email isn’t okay._

_If you ever want to talk to me again, I_

_THIS MESSAGE WAS SAVED AS A DRAFT AT 9:37 PM_

_FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com_  
_TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com_  
_DATE: March 14 at 1:21 AM_  
_SUBJECT: Things I’m mad about_

_I’m mad at you about all of the following things. For the record:_

_1\. I’m mad that you deleted your email when Martin made that post. I’m still mad about that._  
_2\. I’m mad that you didn’t listen to me when I said it was a bad idea to hook up in that locker room._  
_3\. I’m mad that you never look at me in class and I’m always looking at you, even though I don’t want to._  
_4\. I’m mad that we never got to do what we said we were going to do, that night. After the basketball game. If you even know what I’m talking about._  
_5\. I’m mad that you’re the one who stopped sitting with ME at lunch._  
_6\. I’m mad that you didn’t come out just for me. I’m also mad that I even feel like that, I guess._  
_7\. I’m mad that I had to keep a secret from Leah for so long. I told her everything, last night. Except who you are. I would never tell her that. I would never tell anyone that, ever._  
_8\. I’m mad that I can’t stop thinking about you no matter what I do._  
_9\. I’m mad that_

_THIS MESSAGE WAS SAVED AS A DRAFT AT 1:21 AM_


	16. Chapter 16

“You have to come,” Leah says. “It’s Nick’s _birthday_. You can’t not come.”

“Can’t we just take him out to dinner or something?” Simon asks.

“What are we, forty-five? Garrett’s throwing him a party and we’re going. I know you’ve been sad—” she lowers her voice, “—about that asshole. But come on, this will be exactly what you need. Just have fun and forget about everything.”

“He’s not an asshole,” Simon says, automatically. Leah rolls her eyes.

God, sometimes it would be a lot easier if Leah could just figure it out already. Even if Simon wakes up every day from a nightmare where that’s exactly what she does.

Whatever. Maybe he won’t come.

They still haven’t spoken, not even once. And even though Simon still tries not to look, tells himself he doesn’t have the right to care, he spends every class aware of every atom of Bram’s being. Sometimes he thinks he can hear his breathing from two rows away.

Leah must see the look on his face.

“Simon,” she says. “Babe, I love you, but come on. I thought you said some things were better now, right? Like you’re not worried all the time.”

It’s true. It’s just that sometimes he thinks he’d do it again, the worry and the secrets and the panic. When he sees Bram smile down at his book, in English, like he’s smiling _at_ the poems. That’s when Simon wants to trade back.

“Of course I’ll come,” he says, so they can stop talking about this. “Just don’t let me get wasted again, okay?”

Leah keeps her promise, mostly. Simon doesn’t even really want to get that drunk, which is probably more help than Leah’s intermittent grabbing of beers out of his hands. Garrett’s house is full, pulsing with kids and music and the faint smell of weed curling up from the door that leads down to the basement. It’s not _not_ fun, mostly because he hasn’t seen Bram once.

There are a lot of people there. It kind of turned into a rager, which isn’t what Simon would have chosen for his birthday. Nick looks pretty happy about it, though. He’s dancing in the middle of the living room to some old school Sean Paul, an empty box of Natty Ice on his head. 

Simon watches from the kitchen, laughing. So a lot of senior year has been undeniably shitty. This, though, is pretty fun. 

“Spier!” Garrett shouts, spotting Simon. He makes his way through the masses of kids in the kitchen and pulls him into a hug. “So glad you’re here, man!” 

He’s pretty drunk, but the affection is genuine. It’s—it feels nice. He’s spent so long thinking about how Bram doesn’t sit with them at lunch that he’s forgotten that he always liked Garrett a lot, too.

“Look, I’m sorry I never talked to you about that Forrester stuff,” Garrett says, lowering his voice just enough that Simon can still hear him over the music.

Simon doesn’t want to do this. 

“It’s cool,” he says. “Really.”

“No, man, I mean, it was not okay,” Garrett says. “Greenfeld really went apeshit about it, anyway. I mean, the way he does. He wrote a whole letter to Mr. Worth and fucking, like, _cited_ school policy. Way more effective than punching someone in the face. Which was my plan.”

Simon can’t—he can’t think about this right now. 

_That’s the way I give my love_ , Sean Paul croons. _But a man gotta do what a man gotta do._

He needs another beer. He looks around for one, then just grabs the cup out of Garrett’s hand.

“Go for it, man!” Garrett says. He high-fives Simon. Simon tries to smile at him. 

“GARRETT!” someone shouts from across the kitchen. “You’re up.”

“My Beirut legacy calls,” Garrett says. He grabs another can of beer and empties it into his--now Simon’s--cup before he leaves.

Simon drains it, then goes to find Leah.

She’s talking to some junior that he’s never seen before. 

“I’m probably gonna leave soon,” he says. “Can you give me a ride?”

She looks up at him, a question on her face. He shrugs. 

“Uh, give me an hour?” she says. “Plus, we haven’t even done the cake for Nick yet. I think the candles are in my coat, actually. I left it in one of the bedrooms upstairs. Will you go check? I think it’s like the second one.”

“Sure,” Simon says. Anything to expedite this process. He knows he should stay, have fun, be here for Nick. But he just wants to get in bed and pull up the covers and--think. Not think. Wallow. 

Plus, it’s already like midnight and he’s been here since ten. By any official measure, he’s attended this party.

There’s nothing in the second door upstairs besides some old exercise equipment. No coats. He checks the third door. Locked.

 _Figure your shit out, Leah,_ Simon thinks. He goes back to the first door.

This one opens onto a bedroom. There are coats on the bed. 

Bram’s sitting on the bed, too. He looks up when the door opens.

“Sorry,” Simon says. “Sorry, I’ll--”

He closes the door and rubs his hands over his face. _Shit_. Is that where Bram’s been all night?

God, the stupid candles. He just wants to do this cake thing so he can leave.

He opens the door again.

“Sorry, I just need to grab--” he says. “From Leah’s coat, I think it’s--?”

“Uh, here,” Bram says. He holds the coat out to Simon. Simon takes it from him. He doesn’t look at Bram’s hands, or Bram’s face.

“Sorry,” Simon says, again. “I--thanks. I’ll go.”

“You don’t have to go,” Bram says. “I mean. It’s fine.”

“I--” Simon says. He lets himself look at Bram for the first time. Bram looks away from him, over at the bed. There’s a book there, of course. 

“You were up in here reading?” Simon asks, before he can help it. 

“Yeah,” Bram says, and winces. “I know it’s lame.”

“It’s not lame,” Simon says. Well, it kind of is. But it’s also just so _Bram_ that it makes something inside him ache, sweet and painful.

He takes another step into the room and closes the door behind him.

“What’s the book?” he asks. He doesn’t let himself think about Bram reading _Lunch Poems_ at school, a few weeks ago. What it had felt like to see that book again. To know that Bram knew what it meant, that Bram was thinking about those things too.

“It’s, uh,” Bram says. “Don’t laugh.”

He hands it to Simon. It’s a really old, beat up paperback copy of _The Phantom Tollbooth_.

“Isn’t this a kid’s book?” Simon asks.

“Pretty much,” Bram says. “I just--I don’t know. I re-read it a lot. There’s a lot of cool wordplay and stuff, and the movie’s good, too, I don’t know if you ever--”

He stops, throws the book back over to the bed.

“I’m rambling,” he says. “This is weird.” Simon knows he doesn’t mean the rambling.

“It is,” Simon says. “Not bad weird, though.”

“No,” Bram says. 

They’re both standing by the side of the bed, which is covered in coats. Downstairs, the music has changed, Sean Paul fading into something newer, more languid.

“This is Frank Ocean, right?” Simon asks. 

Bram laughs. 

“Yeah,” he says. “We never got that far in your lessons, did we. Good job.”

“I obviously know _Frank Ocean_ ,” Simon says. “When he came out I was secretly obsessed for, like, years.”

“Yeah,” Bram says. It gets quiet again. From below, Simon can hear the words of the song: _The start of nothing, I had no chance to prepare, I couldn’t see you coming._

He can feel Bram next to him like it’s his own body.

“Bram,” he says, at the same time that Bram says, “Why did you _run_?”

“What?” he says. Bram won’t look at him. He’s still, so still, except for where he’s biting at the corner of his lip. The skin there is white, bloodless.

“I told you,” Bram says. “I _promised_ you I would never run away again. How could you do that to me?”

“But you’re the one who ran away,” Simon says. He can feel his pulse, the heat that’s blooming across his face. “You’re the one who stopped eating with us at lunch! You’re the one who never looks at me in class--”

“You just decided!” Bram says. “You just decided it was over and you left and you didn’t talk to me about it, you didn’t ask, you didn’t--”

“You deleted your email,” Simon says, very slowly, so that he can breathe. He can hear his voice shaking. “I needed you and you were the only one I had and you just--you just--”

“I _know_!” Bram says. “I know, I was _scared_ , I was--”

“Don’t you fucking dare say you were a coward,” Simon says. He’s furious, suddenly. He can feel it pounding through him. 

“It’s not true,” he says. “It’s not a _fucking_ excuse, don’t you dare, don’t you dare, Bram--”

Bram opens his mouth again and Simon can’t hear it, whatever he’s about to say. He can’t let him say it so he presses his mouth to Bram’s, instead, so that he won’t be able to.

Bram freezes, for a split second, and then he’s kissing Simon back. He presses Simon back onto the bed, coats scattering around them, and Simon has his face in his hands, grabbing him, holding him there. Bram’s mouth is hot. It’s not enough, Simon thinks. It’s never enough.

“You think I don’t look at you in class?” Bram is saying, against Simon’s lips. “I don’t need to look at you, Simon, I always _know_ , I know you’re there, I know exactly what you look like, I’ll never be able to stop _knowing_ \--”

When Simon kisses Bram he bites at him, sucks at his lower lip. His hands are still on Bram’s face. He can feel the way his jaw moves when he kisses, when he tries to talk. Simon rolls them over, pins Bram down. He hears something fall, a shattering noise.

Bram wrenches out of Simon’s grasp and raises his mouth to Simon’s neck. The kisses that he lands there are painful, furious. Simon gasps out loud and arches his neck for more and Bram grabs at the hem of Simon’s shirt, pulls on it.

“Just take it,” Simon says, “Off, Bram,” and he’s wrenching it over his head, struggling with Bram’s, underneath him. He gives up halfway, the shirt bunched around Bram’s shoulders, and settles for mouthing at the expanse of skin left to him, Bram’s nipples, his ribs.

Bram’s hands are in his hair, fingers tight. Simon shivers with the feeling of it. He can’t stop wanting this, he thinks. He doesn’t know what to do, except to take as much of it as he can, right now.

“I want,” he says out loud. “Let me--Bram--”

He moves lower, kisses down Bram’s stomach. He can feel how hard Bram is in his jeans. 

“Just let me,” he says again, fighting with Bram’s button. “Please--just this once, just one time--”

Bram’s hand is gone, suddenly. 

“Simon,” he says, then makes a low noise. “Don’t.”

Simon jerks away, scrambles back on the bed. Bram’s sitting up, pulling his shirt down. His lips are all swollen.

“I can’t,” he says. “We can’t. _Fuck_.”

Simon doesn’t know if he’s ever heard Bram swear like that before.

“Bram,” Simon says, one time. Just once. “Are you sure--I want--”

“Don’t say that,” Bram says. “Don’t ask me that, Simon.” He gets up from the bed, reaches for _The Phantom Tollbooth_. It shakes in his hand.

“I can’t do this again,” Bram says, very quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Simon says. “I’m sorry, I--”

There’s a spot on his neck, where Bram was kissing him. He can feel his pulse there, a small hot patter.

“I’ll just go,” Simon says. 

Bram nods. He doesn’t look at him.

Downstairs, Simon finds the candles in his pocket, crushed. Neon-colored grains of wax spill through his fingers. 

***

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: March 27 at 2:04 AM  
SUBJECT: FYI

I read this book recently. As usual, I’m stealing other people’s words because I don’t have the right ones myself. I don’t know if any of this makes sense. Anyway, in this book, this memoir, the woman said what I didn’t tell you tonight:

I still feel like you’re my real life. Nothing else feels like my real life. 

Bram


	17. Chapter 17

Simon has to spend the first three days of the week with his hoodie zipped all the way up to his chin. He’s paranoid, now, after what happened with Ethan. And the mark that Bram left on him is a livid bruise, obvious to any teenager with half a brain.

It’s early April in Georgia and it’s getting hotter. Simon sweats silently. He wonders if Bram knows what he did to him. 

He wishes he could unzip his hoodie, so that Bram would have to see. 

The only good thing that happens in school the whole week is at the end of AP World, on Friday. Simon’s sitting with Ethan and they’re still talking, even after the bell rings. 

“The fact that you just compared me to Jonathan is literally the best thing anyone has said to me in my life,” Ethan is saying. “You are officially my favorite, I’m texting Taylor right now to tell her she’s been replaced, sorry not sorry about it.”

“No, but did you see the one where--” Simon starts, and then someone says, “Excuse me, Ethan?”

It’s that big German kid. Hans. Heinrich. Helmut? 

“Henry!” Ethan says, surprised. Oh. Simon really needs to get better about assuming things.

“I am wondering,” Henry says. He’s so tall that it’s kind of hard to see his face from a sitting position, but he looks nervous.

“I am wondering,” Henry says again. “If you want to go with me to the Prom.”

Ethan cranes his head over his shoulder, like he’s looking for whoever’s standing behind him.

“Excuse me?” he says.

“Ethan,” Henry says. “I am asking _you_.” He looks at Simon like he’s not sure why Simon’s there. 

“I can go,” Simon says. “I’ll just--”

“Stay,” says Ethan, in a sharp voice. “I’m sure Henry’s about to get to the point of this breathtakingly original joke and then we can all move on.”

“It is not a joke,” says Henry. He sounds more unsure, now. “I am liking you all year. That is how you say it, yes?”

“You always seemed nice,” Ethan says, his mouth tight. “Who convinced you this would be some kind of fun American tradition? Was it Jason?”

“If you do not want to it is okay,” says Henry. He’s rubbing one hand nervously over his bicep. Which is pretty large. “You are gay, yes? I am not making a mistake?”

Ethan laughs out loud. Then his eyes get really big. 

“Oh my god,” he says. “You aren’t kidding, are you?”

“I told you it is not a joke,” Henry says again, frustrated. “Ethan, if you want to say no please just tell me.”

“Oh,” Ethan says. He puts one hand over his mouth.

Simon tries to be invisible, but it’s hard when he can’t stop smiling.

Henry waits. Ethan is still sitting there, frozen. Finally he blinks a few times.

“I--really?” he asks, like he can’t help it.

“I am very serious,” Henry says. “I told you I am liking you all year. You are funny. And you are very handsome.”

“Oh,” Ethan says again. “I--yes?”

“You will go with me?” asks Henry.

“Yes?” Ethan says again. “Yes, I mean. Yes.”

“I am glad,” Henry says. He grins. It’s a very good grin, almost blinding. 

Afterwards, Ethan blinks a few more times. He looks at Simon.

“Did that just?” he asks. Simon nods. 

“Okay,” Ethan says, almost to himself. His mouth flicks up, like he’s trying it out, then settles into a new kind of smile. 

“He’s cute, right?” he says to Simon, shyly. Sure, objectively, but Henry’s not really what Simon pictures when he hears the word “cute.” At least not anymore. He tries not to think about that, because it makes his stomach twist, a sick swoop.

“Yeah,” he says, and he warms himself as much as he can in Ethan’s happiness.

It’s enough warmth to last all the way through the weekend and to Monday. Simon’s so anxious to get to be a fly on the wall during AP World that he manages to half-forget about the English presentations he’s been dreading for two weeks now.

It’s bad enough to sit in the same room as Bram every day. It’s been even more unbearable, if that’s even possible, since Nick’s birthday party. 

It’s like that night brought everything rushing back, all the tiny details that had just started to fade, to think about scarring over. The way Bram tastes, the sound of his voice, the feeling of his body against Simon’s.

The fact that he’s mad at Simon, too.

Simon keeps reading the email Bram sent him after that night. He hasn’t responded yet. He doesn’t know what to say. 

He doesn’t know what it could change. 

It’s not like it was a promise, or an apology. Bram could have meant it in a bad way. Like he hates Simon for it. That Simon gave him something and then abandoned him.

He didn’t want--that night, he said he couldn’t do it again. Simon still feels a hot rush of shame when he thinks about it.

And now he has to sit here and listen to Bram read a poem. Of all the stupid assignments Mr. Wise could have come up with. They’re not even _writing_ the poems, just performing them. It’s like Mr. Wise forgot he doesn’t teach theater.

“Oliver!” says Mr. Wise, and Oliver Fitch stands up. Bram is next. Maybe Simon can time a trip to the bathroom just right.

“This poem is entitled, _The Red Wheelbarrow_ , by William Carlos Williams,” says Oliver. Simon sees Mr. Wise cover a yawn.

“So much depends on a red wheelbarrow,” Oliver begins. 

Simon keeps his eye on the bathroom pass. If he raises his hand right now, maybe.

He doesn’t raise his hand.

“Thrilling, Oliver,” says Mr. Wise. “Thank you. Bram?”

Bram stands up at the front of the room. He swallows a few times. Simon tries not to watch his throat. The length of it, working.

“This is ‘Song,’” he says. “Well, one a few called ‘Song.’ By Frank O’Hara.” Mr. Wise’s eyebrows go up. 

Simon can’t feel his body.

“Did you see me walking by the Buick Repairs?” Bram says. His voice is soft and steady, like he’s so sure about what he’s saying.

“I was thinking of you,” Bram says. 

“Having a Coke in the heat it was your face  
I saw on the movie magazine, no it was Fabian's  
I was thinking of you.”

It doesn’t sound like some guy in the fifties wrote it, not the way Bram says it. It sounds like it’s happening here, now, today.

“And down at the railroad tracks where the station  
has mysteriously disappeared  
I was thinking of you  
as the bus pulled away in the twilight  
I was thinking of you.”

He looks at Simon. 

“And right now,” Bram says. 

It’s the end of the poem. Bram’s still looking at Simon. Simon’s looking back at him.

It doesn’t _change_ anything, Simon thinks. 

“That’s a perfect note to end on today,” Mr. Wise says. “Thank you, Mr. Greenfeld! Everyone going tomorrow, please take a note from Mr. Greenfeld’s book. Elocution. Eye contact. Make it your own.”

He pauses. 

“You can sit down now, Bram,” he says, and Bram moves like he’s coming awake. 

He sits down at his desk. He’s not looking at Simon anymore.

Simon thinks about the poem he was planning on reading tomorrow. It’s not a bad poem. It’s Robert Frost, because he ended up really liking Frost when they learned about him. But it’s not--important. He can’t possibly read it tomorrow. 

It doesn’t say anything about the things he wants to say. 

_Leah sos what do you know about poetry_ , he texts her that night. 

She send him a bunch of links to Tumblr. He looks through them, for hours. 

There’s one that makes him tense up with the truth of it, even though the title almost made him close the window. He thought Leah was sending it to him as a joke, at first.

He chooses it because it isn’t an apology, because it’s angry. It’s furious. It wants, so badly.

In class the next day, he sits through Taylor Metternich’s recital of the entirety of “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” He barely hears her. All he can see is Bram. 

“Till human voices wake us, and we drown,” says Taylor, triumphantly. Mr. Wise opens his eyes.

“Well said, Taylor,” he manages. He blinks a few times, then looks down at his sheet.

“Ah, Simon. Come on up. Frost?”

“Uh,” says Simon, walking up to stand in front of the blackboard. He wipes his hands on his thighs, then sticks them in his pockets. He changes his mind, takes them out again. Lets them dangle. 

“I actually changed my poem, if that’s okay,” he says.

Mr. Wise shrugs. “It’s the end of the year,” he says, like that’s an answer.

“Okay, well then,” Simon says. “Um, thanks, Mr. Wise. This is by Nico Alvarado. It’s called ‘Tim Riggins Speaks of Waterfalls.’”

Lauren Lake looks more interested than she’s been all of poetry unit. “Tim Riggins is _so_ hot?” she whispers to the girl next to her. “From, like, Friday Night Lights?”

Mr. Wise looks suspicious, so Simon clears his throat hurriedly.

He can’t look at Bram, not in front of the whole class like this. But everything he’s saying is for him.

“Do you want to know what it was like?” he asks Bram. “It was like my whole life had a fever. Whole acres of me were on fire.”

He keeps going. He’s telling all of it to Bram. All of it is the truth.

He says, “I was just a pillar of fire.”

He says, “It wasn’t the burning so much as the loneliness.”

His voice shakes, halfway through. He’s not as good at this as Bram is. But he keeps going.

At the end of the poem he looks at Bram. Just for the last four lines. Bram is looking back at him. Simon can’t tell what the look on his face is. It’s quiet.

“I don’t want to be around you,” Simon says, and means it. “I don’t want to drink you in.” 

Bram blinks and his mouth twists down. He starts to look away.

“I want to walk into the heart of you,” Simon finishes.

“And never walk back out.”

He means that, too. That’s the problem.

At the bell Simon rushes out of class, and then he leans back against the lockers in the hallways and tries to breathe. He didn’t hear a single poem that anyone read after he went. He couldn’t look over at Bram. 

He doesn’t know what he was doing, or what he even really wanted.

There are still kids streaming out of the room. He should go, so he’s not late for third period. 

“Simon,” Bram says. He’s right there in front of Simon. His face is tense. 

They stand there, barely looking at each other, until the bell rings again and the hallways are empty. 

“Were you really that lonely?” Bram asks. 

Simon twists his mouth and nods. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Bram asks. His voice is tight, and quiet.

Simon shrugs. “I think because it was worth it,” he says. “Almost all of the time it was worth it.”

“I didn’t know,” Bram says. He sounds--angry. Upset. Simon hears him take a breath.

“You didn’t give me a chance,” Bram says. “I didn’t even know you felt that way and then you were just gone.”

“What would it have _changed_ , Bram?” Simon asks. His voice is tight now, too. “It wouldn’t have changed anything. I didn’t want--”

He doesn’t know what else to say. He stands there, looking at Bram, at the tense line of his mouth, the planes of his face. 

“We could have--” Bram starts, and then Mr. Worth is walking towards them, down the hall, and it’s over.

***

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: April 7 at 1:53 AM  
SUBJECT: Re: FYI

Bram,

I’m sorry it took me so long to respond to this email. I mean honestly, I wasn’t going to respond to it. 

But we never got to finish what we were saying today, so here goes.

You said that I feel (felt, I guess) like your real life. That nothing else feels like your real life.

The thing I’m most afraid to say is: this could _be_ your real life, if you wanted.

“Want” is the wrong word, I know. But I don’t know a better one.

I want all of you, Bram. I don’t want a part of you. I don’t want you to just have a part of me. 

I feel selfish for wanting that. And I feel angry, for having to explain it. But I guess it’s true. And it’s not going away. I’m sorry.

I don’t know how to fix this,  
Simon

P.S. And I guess you’re right, it’s not fair that you didn’t know what I was thinking. So anyway, I’m going to attach a bunch of emails that I started writing this month and then never sent. I won’t edit them. I just feel like you deserve to finally know what I was thinking about. What I’m thinking about.

6 attachments: feb24mail; feb24mail2; mar1mail; mar3mail; mar11mail; mar14mail

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: April 7 at 2:41 AM  
SUBJECT: Re: FYI

Simon,

There’s nothing for you to fix. You don’t have to feel bad for wanting those things.

I want them too, Simon. I’m working on it. I’m not going to ask you to wait, because I don’t know how long it will take. But you need to know that I want them too. 

When I walk into the heart of you, this time, I never want to have to walk back out.

Bram

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Song (Walking by the Buick Repairs)](https://www.poeticous.com/frank-ohara/song-did-you-see-me-walking-by-the-buick-repairs)   
>  [Tim Riggins Speaks of Waterfalls](http://gulfcoastmag.org/journal/26.1/tim-riggins-speaks-of-waterfalls/)
> 
> Sorry not sorry that I stole the entire concept for this chapter from the greatest teen movie ever made, don't @ me.


	18. Chapter 18

Bram smiles at Simon on the way to his seat on Wednesday morning. It’s quick, and small. A little flare of warmth. And something inside Simon flares up, in response.

Little by little, everything is different, and nothing is different.

Bram and Garrett eat with them at lunch the next Monday. Nobody says anything about it. It’s not like they used to eat with Simon’s friends every day, anyway. Maybe he’s the only one who notices. 

“If elected Prom King I will refuse to serve,” Bram is saying. “I think someone nominated me as a joke.”

Garrett rolls his eyes. 

“The fact that you don’t realize you’re, like, one of the _the_ most popular kids at Creekwood is insane,” he says. “Seriously, I’ll make a bet with you right now.”

“Yeah,” says Abby. “You’ve got the sports thing, the being weirdly nice considering how cool you are thing--”

“--And the smart thing,” says Simon. “Although maybe that’s a negative, around here.”

Bram grins at him. 

Simon bites his lip to hold back his own smile.

Under the table, he thumbs his phone open.

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
TO: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
DATE: April 11 at 9:40 PM  
SUBJECT: Stuff with my mom

Simon,

Things with my mom are going pretty well. It is weird that we never talked about it, but we can probably just apply that phrase to most of what we need to discuss and move on. She’s been very cool about everything, actually. The “pretty well” qualifier is mostly about how she wants to join PFLAG and I keep telling her it’s not that big of a deal. And that I don’t want a rainbow bedspread--for some reason, she keeps bringing that one up. 

How are things with your parents? Has your dad been better about all of his nervous jokes? I don’t know if my mom’s hyper-support is better or worse; I guess both of us are pretty lucky, all told. 

See you tomorrow,  
Bram

 _Bram,_ Simon starts to type. _I’m glad to hear that about your mom, although you’re right, that’s not exactly the vibe of your bedroom. My dad has been a lot better, although he suggested we both sign up for Grindr as a bonding activity. I wasn’t really sure how to handle that one. It was a lot better when he was just calling Instagram “Instant-gram” all the time._

“Jesus,” Leah says. “Put your phone away. We’re talking about you and you didn’t even notice.”

Simon looks up. 

“What about me?” he asks.

“Didn’t you say that that German kid asked Ethan to prom and it was super romantic?” Nick says.

Everyone looks at Simon expectantly, except for Bram, who looks down at the table.

Right. That’s the part where nothing is different.

They’ve been emailing again. They’ve been making eye contact in school again. They’ve even been talking to each other out loud again. 

But it’s not like it was. It’s just--it’s friends.

And the thing is, Simon will take it. He’s the one who _told_ Bram he couldn’t be with him in secret anymore. 

And Bram is the one who told him not to wait around. Simon’s trying to listen to that. 

This, though, sucks. 

“Yeah,” he says. “It was really cute. Ethan thought it was a joke, at first.”

That part was sad, actually, not cute. But he doesn't want to have to explain why, what it means to watch someone not let themselves hope. 

“What’s his name?” Garrett asks. “Hans?”

“Henry,” Simon says, and Abby rolls her eyes.

“Not all German people are named _Hans_ ,” she says. “Did you know he was gay?”

Everyone looks at Simon again.

“Did you know _I_ was gay?” he asks Abby. 

Abby shrugs. “Good point,” she says. 

Bram’s still silent. It’s fine, Simon thinks. He’s not waiting for anything. He doesn’t have to worry about this anymore. 

And then the next day, in English, Simon looks over at Bram and Bram is looking back at him and--sometimes it’s still hard. 

He just has to learn not to want Bram that way, not right now, not when he has him back in so many other ways.

Even when Bram’s fingers trace along the lines of the poem as he reads, deft and sure. 

Even when he reaches up to stretch out his arms, yawning, and the sleek muscles of his body unsheath themselves. 

Even when he flashes that easy smile and Simon's whole body goes hot and tight. 

“So was the exact phrase ‘don’t wait for me,’” Leah asks, over waffles, “or was it ‘I’m not going to ask you to wait for me’?”

“The second one,” Simon says.

Leah leans across the table, right into Simon’s face. She looks very intense.

“Simon, there’s a _huge_ difference, are you kidding?” she says. “Blue totally wants you to wait, he just can’t ask you because he feels like it’s too much to put on you and he doesn’t think he deserves it and--”

“Didn’t you just spend a month telling me I had to hate him?” Simon asks. “That was actually a lot more helpful than this is.” 

“I know,” Leah says. “And I was right. But you’re being an idiot about this part of it, for sure. I’m not going to let you convince yourself he doesn’t want you when obviously he wants you, because I guess he’s smarter than I give him credit for.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Simon says. “Either way, it’s not like he gave me a timeline. The whole point is that no one’s waiting for anyone. It’s fine.”

“Yeah,” Leah says. “You seem really fine about it.”

“Leah,” Simon says, picking at what’s left of his waffle. “Don’t--I’m trying to be okay about this. Just, please. Let it go.”

“Oh, Si,” Leah says. She reaches out and steals the last piece of waffle.

“What?” she says, when he looks at her. “You were just torturing it. If you want to move on, let’s talk about how you need to buy me an orange corsage, and if you get baby’s breath in it I’m going to leave you at whatever the prom version of an altar is.”

Simon didn’t even know corsages came in colors other than red, but he finds one with little pink-orange buds on it, and no baby’s breath. It looks nice, and it looks even nicer on Leah, in her blue dress with her hair all piled on top of her head. 

“Smile!” Simon’s dad shouts, from behind the camera. Simon wraps his arms around Leah and smiles and thinks about how glad he is to have her, to have had her for so long.

He doesn’t think about the version of Prom he’s never let himself think about, not even once. 

In the limo, he watches Nick and Abby and Leah laughing and taking selfies and he slides his own phone out of his pocket, cups his hand around it to hide the screen.

_Bram,_

_Yeah, the story of Henry and Ethan is pretty good. He used to call Henry “Herr Hottie” in class, kind of in a self deprecating way, but when you know Ethan you can sort of tell when he really means something and when he’s just being funny. I didn’t pay a lot of attention to Henry all semester but_

Leah catches his eye and makes a throat-cutting motion with her hand. 

“I know what you’re doing, idiot,” she whispers in his ear. “Just forget about him for half a second and have fun.”

Simon puts his phone away. He can have fun. He’ll have fun. 

It’s not even that hard to do, it turns out. The first fun thing is Mr. Worth’s tuxedo, which is baby blue with white lapels.

“Oh no,” Abby says, when she sees it. “That is impressively tragic.” 

“Simon!” Mr. Worth calls, and waves to them. He points to the rainbow pin he’s still wearing. 

“Oh, god,” Simon says. “He’ll probably try and dance with me just to make me feel included, or something. That has to be against some kind of policy, right?”

“He’ll have to get through me, first,” Abby says. She grabs his hand and pulls him onto the dancefloor. 

Simon’s usually reluctant about dancing when he’s not Drake-is-a-genius drunk, but it’s easier than usual to let go tonight. There’s something about the sense that everyone in the room got through the same four years together, good or bad, and it almost doesn’t matter what they think of you now. It’s too late to care.

Carly Rae Jepsen is pounding through the room and it’s good, Simon feels good. He dances with Abby and with Leah, bouncing, loving the push of bodies and the sight of their faces close to his, shouting the lyrics. 

“ _I WANNA CUT TO THE FEELING,_ ” he yells back to them, happily. Nick’s there, too, in a big clump of them, all the people he loves. When the song ends he’s sweating, he got so into it. He goes to get a drink and leans back against the wall, watches his classmates moving in a beautiful mass while he catches his breath.

“If it isn’t my little legal scholar,” Mr. Worth says to someone, to his left, and Simon turns. 

Bram’s there, with Garrett and the girl Garrett’s been hooking up with. He doesn’t see Simon. He looks--Bram looks--

Simon tries not to think about how Bram looks, in his dark, slim-fitting suit. Or about the fact that he’s here alone. 

He should go over and say hi, he thinks. They’re friends, now. Again. He can just casually say hi and then he’ll have seen him and it will be fine.

He goes back to the dance floor instead, makes his body move until it’s all that he can feel.

“You’re really into this!” Abby shouts at him over the music. She’s dancing with Leah, and she pulls him in so that they’re mashed together, a jumbled triangle.

It’s good, Simon thinks. This is what Prom should be.

There’s the screech of a microphone, and the music cuts out. Simon stops, almost stumbling. Mr. Worth is onstage.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “The moment you’ve all been waiting for! Drumroll, please!”

He waits, but there’s no drumroll. There’s a long silence. A few kids giggle, and the hum of chatter starts back up in the room.

“No drumroll, please!” Mr. Worth says, finally. He opens an envelope.

“Your Creekwood High School Senior Prom King is…”

His pause is pretty quick, this time, like he’s afraid he’ll lose his audience again.

“Abraham Greenfeld!”

“ _Abraham?_ ” Simon hears Abby say. “Is he Jewish?” but it sounds far off in the distance, along with the scattered cheering.

Bram is walking through the crowd, up to the stage. Simon watches him and knows every part of him like it’s by heart: the back of his neck, the curve of his shoulder, the sweet jut of his ears.

All the seniors at Creekwood watch Bram and Simon thinks, none of you know him like I do.

Mr. Worth is putting a plastic crown on Bram’s Head. It should look ridiculous.

It doesn't. It looks beautiful.

“And now your Senior Prom Queen,” Mr. Worth begins, but Bram taps him on the shoulder. He says something to Mr. Worth that Simon can’t hear. 

Mr. Worth nods, and hands him the microphone.

Bram clears his throat into it nervously and something slices through Simon.

Don’t, he tells himself. Don’t hope.

“I’m not usually one for speeches,” Bram says.

Someone shouts, “We want the Prom Queen!” Someone else shushes them.

Simon can’t breathe.

“But, uh,” Bram says. “I did lose a bet, and I’m required to say that Garrett Laughlin deserves to be the Prom King, because he is so much cooler and more handsome than me, and also better at sports.”

Someone boos, and Bram hands the mic to Mr. Worth. He looks apologetic.

“Er, thank you for that, Bram,” Mr. Worth says. "We're going to move on to the Prom Queen." He looks around for his other envelope, then finds it in his pocket. 

It’s Abby. Simon hugs her, but he can’t cheer. He doesn’t know what will happen if he tries to make his throat work right now.

She looks beautiful with her crown on, too. She and Bram shine up there. It’s a stupid tradition, but at least Creekwood students got two things right this year.

Simon looks at them and looks at them and then he goes and sits down in the corner of the room, away from everyone. He plays with the carpet, rubs his hand over it until it’s red and prickly.

Dumb, he thinks. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

It’s getting later. The DJ has started to move away from party bangers and towards slow jams. Rihanna’s plaintive voice echoes against the walls behind him.

 _All along, it was a fever,_ she sings. _A cold sweat, hot-headed believer._

“Come on, Si,” Leah says, appearing in front of him. “I love this song. Dance with me?”

She holds her hand out to him, and he grabs it and lets her help him up.

She puts her arms around him and rests her cheek on his shoulder. He can feel her face against his.

“Love you, Leah,” he says.

“You too, Si,” Leah says.

Across the dance floor, Simon can see Ethan and Henry, dancing together, their hands on each others’ waists. A few kids are starting, but they’re just looking at each other.

The song changes. This one’s even slower. It reminds Simon of something he’s heard before, somewhere.

“Hey,” Leah whispers in his ear. “I think someone else wants to dance with you.”

Simon turns. 

Bram is standing there. He’s still wearing the crown. He’s looking right at Simon.

“Can I?” he asks. 

Leah moves away, silently. Simon’s just standing there. 

He nods. He's afraid, absurdly, that if he speaks this will disappear.

When Bram moves towards him it’s like something slotting back together, a bone-deep click. He puts his arms around Simon’s shoulders. Simon’s hands fit against Bram’s waist, holding on. He can feel Bram through his suit jacket, his still-familiar body.

“You know this is Frank Ocean, too?” Bram says, and Simon hears the music: _Wherever you’re going, I’m going your way._

“Still giving me lessons?” Simon asks, and Bram smiles at him, bright and wide.

Something inside Simon turns over and over in the warmth of it.

Bram’s arms tighten around Simon. They’re dancing closer now, slow and careful. Simon's hands come together behind Bram's back. Everywhere Simon’s body is touching Bram he can feel it. He feels tender, too big for his skin.

Bram’s face changes, just a little. He’s looking at Simon and there’s something in his eyes that Simon recognizes, because he feels that way, too, all the time.

“Can I kiss you?” Bram asks. 

God, Simon wants him back.

“Bram,” he makes himself say, a question. They’re still at Prom. Everyone is here. There are already a few kids staring, but it’s one thing to dance together—

“I don’t care,” Bram says. “I mean, it’s okay. I told Garrett. I told the team. I don’t care who else knows or when or how, I just—”

Simon kisses him. 

Bram kisses him back. It's careful, a sweet press of his lips, but it still makes Simon's whole body ache. And then Bram pulls away, breathing harder. His crown is askew.

“I know you like big romantic gestures,” Bram says. “I’m sorry I didn’t do that for you, Simon. I might never be that person, the Ferris Wheel type of person. If you don’t want—”

“The only type of person I want is you,” Simon says.

“Oh,” Bram says. He smiles, that sweet bright grin.

He kisses Simon. He doesn’t stop.

***

FROM: frommywindow1@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: April 16 at 11:57 PM  
SUBJECT: You

Bram,

Sorry if it’s creepy that I’m writing this email on my phone while you’re a few feet away. But I had to. It’s the end of the night and almost everyone is gone and I’m standing here, watching you dance with Leah in the middle of the empty dance floor to Robyn, and I’m so happy that I think I could die right now.

Well, not die. There’s a lot of stuff I want to do first. Most of it with you.

There’s a lot of stuff we still have to talk about, too, in person. But I’m excited about it. I’m excited about everything. 

You sent me an email once and you told me to delete it. I never deleted it, Bram. I read it every day. I’m sorry. But I couldn’t help it. It made me too happy. Even when I wanted to hate you it made me happy.

I don’t know if you remember. But in it you said that I was the it that was like nothing else in your life up to now.

You’re the same for me, Bram. You always were.

Love,  
Simon


	19. Chapter 19

“Take a left here,” Bram says to Garrett, and Garrett swings the car down a narrow dirt road, headlights beaming gently into the woods around them.

They’ve abandoned plans for a four-person afterparty in Nick’s basement for this, the last-minute offer of Bram’s family's middle-of-nowhere cabin. Garrett’s date kissed him on the cheek and went off with her friends, instead, and Garrett laughed. 

“We came as friends,” he said. “She’s not into cabins, anyway.”

So it’s the six of them crammed in Garrett’s SUV driving through the dark Georgia night, parents duly notified and reassured. Simon’s pretty sure his dad intervened with his mom to let this happen, because he can be conveniently invested in Simon’s teenage experiences, sometimes. 

He didn’t tell them about this, though. Bram’s hand on his thigh, the promise of it. 

Simon hasn’t really let himself think beyond concrete details, yet. The small facts he can hold on to and know: Bram’s body swaying against his, the way his crown had been half-off. The lyrics of the song that’s still playing in his head, on a loop.

Anything else feels too big for him to contain. Incomprehensible, in the fullest meaning of the word.

They reach the cabin, which is bigger than Bram made it sound--a big wrap-around porch and high gables--and tumble out of the car, stretching their legs and yawning.

“We have to do, like, at least one fun thing before we pass out,” says Nick, but instead they end up sprawled out on the living room couches, nodding off against each other. Simon looks at the jumble of limbs and loves them all. 

“Just go over this one more time,” Abby says, from where her head is hanging off the couch. “I was the _only_ one who didn’t know?”

“What comes around goes around, babe,” Leah says, and Abby laughs. 

“Seriously, though,” Leah says. “I think I was the only one who actually figured the whole thing out. What do I win?”

Bram’s hand is carding through Simon’s hair. It’s slow, and gentle, a quiet miracle. He’s here, lying on the couch as his friends’ laughter washes over him, and Bram’s hand is in his hair. 

It’s too much, Simon thinks. All of this, in one night. 

“I knew about Bram first,” Garrett says, always competitive. “I just didn’t know about the Simon part.”

“Really?” Simon asks Bram, looking up at him. His head’s on Bram’s thigh. Bram’s fingers are still moving, rhythmic. 

Bram nods. “Baby steps,” he says.

“I didn’t know if we were allowed to talk about it,” Nick says. “Sorry, Simon. It was only like for a day anyway.”

Simon doesn’t even care who knew what from who, when. He’s here now. Bram yawns, above him, but his fingers don’t stop. He’s making little circles on Simon’s scalp. 

Simon feels himself yawning back. He shifts deeper into the couch, feels Bram’s thigh shifting under him. It’s another small, miraculous fact: he files it away, meticulous. He feels slow and good and warm. 

The next thing he knows, the sun is pouring in through the uncovered windows and Garrett’s groaning and pulling a pillow over his face.

“What _time_ is it?” Nick asks. 

“Ugh,” says Abby, from somewhere on the floor. “It’s like six am.”

“There are beds in the basement,” Bram says, voice rough with sleep. “Plus it’s dark down there.”

“Thank god,” mutters Leah. She grabs a blanket and stumbles down the stairs. Nick and Abby and Garrett trail after her.

Simon gets up to follow them, but Bram’s hand tangles with his. 

“There’s another bedroom,” he says, quietly. It’s a question, gentle and easy. Simon could say anything, he thinks, and it would be okay. 

“Good,” he says. 

Bram’s fingers tighten against his, and he leads Simon up off the couch and through a doorway. Inside, there’s a bed with a threadbare quilt, motes dancing over it in the sunlight. They lie down on it in the warmth of the early morning, facing each other. 

Bram’s fingers trace over Simon’s cheek, the bridge of his nose. It feels like being sculpted, re-made. Simon kisses his thumb when it drags against his lips, and Bram smiles at him.

“I missed you,” Bram says.

Simon looks for a long time, at Bram’s hand where it’s so close to him, and Bram’s arm, at the muscles of his shoulder and the beautiful lines of his face. 

I love you, Simon thinks.

He moves, suddenly, rolls onto his stomach and props himself up on his forearms. He puts his chin in a pillow and looks at the headboard. 

“What changed?” he says. “Was there something—”

He still doesn’t know whether he wants Bram to have come out just for him, out of some crazy romantic desire, or whether that would be the worst thing in the world.

The bed sways. Simon looks at Bram, who’s shaking his head.

“It wasn’t—” he starts, then tries again. 

“I was just ready,” he says, slowly. “I feel like I should have a better answer than that. I wasn’t ready, and then I was.”

Simon doesn’t want to feel it, but he does—the smallest flare of jealousy, deep in his gut. It might never go away, he knows.

“I don’t know,” Bram says, like he’s still trying to figure it out. Simon watches him. 

“I didn’t come out _for_ you,” Bram says, finally. “But I don’t know if I would have been ready if it hadn’t been for you. I didn’t even know I was all the way ready, I don’t think, until I saw you there last night. And then I knew. Does that make sense?”

“I don’t know,” Simon says, honestly. 

“I’m sorry it took so long,” Bram says, suddenly. “We could have had months--”

“Don’t,” says Simon. He flips back onto his side and curls into Bram, so that his forehead is bumping against Bram’s ribs. 

“Don’t,” he says again, into Bram’s chest. “You aren’t allowed to apologize for that.”

“Okay,” Bram says. His fingers settle against Simon’s scalp. 

“Have I mentioned that I like your hair?” Bram asks. 

“I like your fingers,” says Simon. Bram makes a warm noise that vibrates all through his chest. Simon can feel it. He curls closer. Bram’s fingers move, slow and steady.

The movement of the bed shakes him awake. 

“Sorry,” Bram says, behind Simon. Simon can feel him lying down. His arm settles over Simon’s waist. The whole warm length of him is against Simon’s back.

“Everyone else went out to buy breakfast stuff,” Bram says, against Simon’s neck. “It’s like half an hour each way. We’re really not near much out here.”

It’s brighter, now. A shaft of light crosses the room, and Simon rolls over to look at the way it illuminates Bram.

He’s right there. He’s been so close, for so long. Just a few desks away. Simon has thought so many times about reaching out and touching him, and it hits him suddenly, hot and fierce as the mid-morning sun, that he can. He can touch Bram, now. He can have him. 

All of the want that’s been on hold since last night, gentled into waiting by happiness and friendship, comes rushing back through Simon at once. It’s months and months of want, a stampede. 

“Bram,” he says, and Bram must be able to feel it, thundering through him. 

“Yes,” Bram says, like he’s waking up again.

It’s quiet, quieter than it’s ever been before. There’s no music, just the creaking of the bed. They don’t talk, at first. Simon thinks that maybe they don’t need to--his body seems to know what to do, all on its own. Like he was made for this. 

He drinks all of it in, the way Bram trembles when Simon’s hands come up to his face, shivering there until Simon kisses him loose and pliant again. The rush of skin that meets his eyes and hands when Bram pulls his shirt over his head. The way his blood sings when Bram kisses his shoulder, his collarbone, his neck. He arches for it, opening, hips following in little bursts. 

Bram’s hands run over his back, down to his waistband. Simon lifts up for them and Bram slides his boxers off. His hands smooth against Simon, trace the place where his thighs meet the curve of his ass, and Simon bites back a noise before he remembers, with a sweet thrill, that Bram likes to hear him. He lets out the next small gasp, when Bram’s hands move further up, the big span of them grasping him, and Bram shivers in response. 

Bram’s hands tighten again and it hits Simon suddenly: the image of Bram’s fingers inside him, opening him up. It’s so hot it _hurts_ , and he groans the pain of it into Bram’s skin, the closest part of him he can find, the muscle and bone of his shoulder. 

“I want,” Bram says. His thumbs are rubbing circles onto Simon’s hips, like he’s steadying both of them. 

“Please,” says Simon. He can’t breathe. Bram kisses down his chest. Simon’s muscles are going haywire: he can feel his stomach twitching in little bursts, like everything in him is firing at once. When Bram gets to his dick he pauses and looks up at Simon and Simon clenches his fingers in the bedspread, feels the old quilt tear a little bit beneath his hands. 

Bram’s mouth on him is too much. It makes Simon want to scream, just to let the feeling out before it shakes his body apart. He bites down on his fist instead, gasping, and watches Bram close his eyes and move his head, tentative and messy and perfect, until Simon grabs at him in frantic warning.

“I’m gonna,” he says, “Bram, _Bram_ \--”

Bram pulls off and Simon reaches down for his dick, tries to hold back or catch it or _something_ , but it’s too much, it’s too late, he’s coming everywhere, all over his fist and his stomach and the quilt. 

“God,” he says, gasping. He’s sweating. It’s the best thing he’s ever felt in his entire life. “God, Bram, Bram, _god_ \--”

“Can I kiss you?” Bram asks. “Is that gross?”

“Wow,” says Simon. “No, the opposite.” He wishes he could taste himself in Bram’s mouth, he realizes with a shiver. There’s so much for them to try. 

“What’s it like?” he asks, when Bram is done kissing him. 

“It’s really good,” Bram says. He laughs quietly. “Maybe it’s just you. Maybe you’re just good.”

“Maybe I have the best-tasting dick in the world?” Simon asks, laughing, and Bram nods. 

“It’s possible,” he says. “My mom would completely kill me for this, by the way. She’s really big on the safest possible sex. We were probably a few steps away from that.”

“I’ve never, with anyone,” Simon says. “I mean, I know that’s not--the same thing.”

“I’ve never, either,” Bram says, quiet again. He strokes a thumb across Simon’s face, presses Simon’s lower lip down. 

I love you, Simon thinks again. 

“Can I?” he asks Bram. Bram nods. 

It’s a little weirder, when they’re not just moving inevitably there in the heat of the moment. Bram scrambles back against the headboard, shifting around to get his pants over his hips and off. Simon moves down the bed. He reaches out, touches Bram’s hips, his thighs, orients himself. 

When his mouth touches Bram, Bram’s whole body tenses. Simon pulls off, worried. 

“Is it--” he asks.

“No,” Bram says, “It’s _good_ , god, Simon, I didn’t realize--”

“Okay,” Simon says. “Tell me if it’s not.”

He moves back, and pauses for a moment just to look. Bram’s dick is so hot. It’s crazy. He’s spent years thinking about what it means that he likes this. Likes these. Worrying about it. And god, in the end it’s just hot. It’s just _good_. 

This time, he kisses around the base of Bram’s dick, moves his mouth up it. Bram tenses again, then relaxes, little by little. Simon can hear him breathing hard, fast rough breaths. He takes as much of Bram into his mouth as he can, and then he wants more, so much that he chokes on it and has to pull off to cough.

“Sorry,” Bram says, “Sorry, sorry, did I--”

“No, it’s good,” says Simon, and tries again. It is good. It’s really good. He didn’t know it would be this hot, the slide of Bram on his tongue, the weight of him. The taste. He could get hard again just from this, he thinks. It makes heat thread through him, the feeling of it. The knowledge of what he must look like, to Bram. 

“Simon,” Bram says, in a choked-off voice. He puts a gentle hand on Simon’s head, slides it down to his cheek. Simon closes his eyes. Bram’s hand moves to his jaw, and then he’s touching Simon’s lips, god. 

“God, Simon, I’m going to,” says Bram, “you gotta--” 

Simon doesn’t want to stop, but he does. It’s almost worth it, for the look on Bram’s face when he’s coming, the way his whole body stretches out like a drawn bow. 

He crawls back up the bed and stretches out next to Bram. He puts a hand on Bram’s hip. He could touch Bram forever, probably, and never get tired of it. 

“Wow,” says Bram, then laughs. “I think you destroyed all of my verbal abilities.”

“Apparently not,” says Simon. It’s always like this with Bram, where he can feel his own smile because it’s so big. “Since you just used the term ‘verbal abilities.”’

Bram laughs again, and Simon kisses him. He can feel sunlight on his back, his thighs, warm and bright. 

There’s the noise of a car pulling in, and then banging. 

“BREAKFAST!” Abby shouts. “Please come out here before Garrett eats the rest of it!”

They put clothes on and head into the kitchen. Breakfast turns out to be the remainders of four dozen Krispy Kreme donuts, which Simon isn’t complaining about. 

Leah puts her phone in a bowl and turns it on, and bright chords fill the kitchen. 

“What _is_ this?” Nick asks, and Leah says, “If you don’t know The Decemberists I can’t help you.” 

_Here’s a hymn to welcome in the day,_ the song declares, and Abby grabs Leah and spins her around, dancing. 

“Yeah, music philistine,” Garrett says. He throws a piece of donut at Nick’s head, and Nick turns and catches it in his mouth in midair.

“Wow,” says Bram. “Okay, try me.”

He catches two pieces, and Simon catches three.

They watch Abby fail to catch any donut pieces. There’s sun in the kitchen, and laughter, and Bram puts his arm around Simon. He leans his head against Simon’s shoulder. 

Simon turns his head so that he can speak quietly, right into Bram’s ear. 

“I’d write this in an email,” he says. “But there’s no cell service here, so. Just FYI. This is everything I’ve ever wanted. I don’t care how long it took. It was worth it. It’s worth it.”

Bram pulls back and looks at him. He’s smiling, but it’s not the big bright kind--it’s smaller, sweet and young and beautiful. He looks like Simon feels, like he’s breaking into blossom.

I love you, Simon thinks for the third time in his life. 

“Hey, Bram,” he says. “P.S.”

Bram leans back in, and Simon tells him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, sorry to book-version-Bram's Mom. 
> 
> Second, there is a bonus literary reference hidden in this chapter, to [my favorite poem of all time](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46481/a-blessing). 
> 
> Third, this has been the most fun I've ever had writing fic in almost 10 years. Thank you for commenting and reading and caring. It's been a real joy!

**Author's Note:**

> For those interested, here's a comprehensive playlist of all the songs referenced in this story (some directly, some more loosely). Warning: comprehensive means the party bangers too, not just the moody sappy stuff.
> 
> [post script](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLTnYZRCmVRuapwQSKZgLppcL8_2LubvQH) on youtube
> 
> And here's a bibliography of all the books, plays, and poems mentioned in this story, including a memoir about alcoholism that is very good but that probably neither of these boys would have actually read. Also, sorry for all the old/dead white men! I blame high school english curricula? [ALSO I just realized that one of my all-time favorite fics also uses "Cathedral" as a major plot device? I had forgotten. Anyway go read it, it's amazing. [A Passage That Sings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/391999) by Rave.]
> 
>  _[Julius Caesar](http://shakespeare.mit.edu/julius_caesar/full.html)_ , William Shakespeare  
> “[Song](http://www.frankohara.org/writing/#song2),” Frank O’Hara  
> “[Cathedral](http://www.giuliotortello.it/ebook/cathedral.pdf),” Raymond Carver  
>  _[What We Talk About When We Talk About Love](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/11438.What_We_Talk_About_When_We_Talk_About_Love)_ , Raymond Carver  
>  _[Giovanni’s Room](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/38462.Giovanni_s_Room?from_search=true)_ , James Baldwin  
>  _[Lunch Poems](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/139867.Lunch_Poems?from_search=true)_ , Frank O’Hara  
> “[The Kiss](https://biblioklept.files.wordpress.com/2013/07/kiss.jpg?w=739),” Anne Sexton  
>  _[Hoops](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/112230.Hoops?ac=1&from_search=true)_ , Major Jackson  
>  _[The Captain’s Verses](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/11320.The_Captain_s_Verses?from_search=true)_ , Pablo Neruda  
> “[Your Hands](https://genius.com/Pablo-neruda-your-hands-annotated),” Pablo Neruda  
> “[Reluctance](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53085/reluctance),” Robert Frost  
>  _[The Phantom Tollbooth](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/378.The_Phantom_Tollbooth?from_search=true)_ , Norton Juster  
>  _[The Recovering](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/35959632-the-recovering?ac=1&from_search=true)_ , Leslie Jamison  
> “[Song (Walking by the Buick Repairs)](https://www.poeticous.com/frank-ohara/song-did-you-see-me-walking-by-the-buick-repairs),” Frank O’Hara  
> “[Tim Riggins Speaks of Waterfalls](http://gulfcoastmag.org/journal/26.1/tim-riggins-speaks-of-waterfalls/),” Nico Alvarado  
> “[A Blessing](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46481/a-blessing),” James Wright


End file.
